


Rejoice and Fall To Your Knees

by Whats_this



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: (but not really?), Angst, Anorexia, Body Image, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Non-Canon Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Esteem Issues, Triggers, relationships could be platonic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-05-08 21:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14703087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whats_this/pseuds/Whats_this
Summary: Patrick always considered fame to be a good thing because it mean't money. Yet didn't feel terribly good now he had it though, as a matter of fact he felt rather anxious and scared because of it. It didn't fit together like he imagined - like it should but everyone else was happy maybe he just needed to change himself to be more like them. Maybe Patrick Stump couldn't be happy unless he wasn't Patrick Stump.





	1. Are You That Desperate?

Chapter 1: Are You That Desperate

Patrick’s favourite music genre was Jazz and yet he played in a pop punk / alternative band and that explained his personality better than a single descriptor could begin to attempt. That or maybe the half lazy and half frenzied fashion he attempted to get himself both physically and mentally prepared for the afternoon ahead of the band.

With his phone laying on the bottom bunk emitting the nostalgic tones of David Bowie to serenad his frantic search through the plastic bag of clean items secured tightly between hordes of dirty clothes and colourful boxes and bottles. Perhaps if he had made use of the new touring bus’s inbuilt drawers – admittedly placed in dumb locations – he wouldn’t have to be so stressed about finding something that was halfway decent or at least matching hidden amidst the compact space of a stiff maroon suitcase. The only joy of his rudimentary storage was that over the scent of sweat drenched clothes he wouldn’t have to smell whatever testosterone pumped odour Pete had made their whole bus reek of.

Shirts with prints were best. Mainly because, for the purpose of interviews, it served the purpose of easy conversation gateways. He’d always been less than brilliant (terrible) at making conversation on camera and radio alike. So accordingly, he tugged out a Pokémon shirt at the bottom of the bag. Something he never bothered to wear since he bought because he was always barraged with the same question, ‘What does the Japanese say’ or worse when they thought it as Chinese and he’d have to correct them and then translate it but it; was at an awkward angle to read off yourself even if it had room to stretch forward and; although languages had always been easy for him he wasn’t superb in translating off the fly especially because; it was a pale colour that in lighting like that off the sleeping quarters of the bus with a singular square window was impossible to read. Most importantly though, he felt either way it wouldn't do a lost cause like him much help.

He didn’t have the motivation nor patience to look for anything else though. He hastily snatched the first pants he could find before locking that door and getting himself dressed. Only allowing further irritation to set in with the realisation his pants – that he swore he bought recently because his other pair was too big for him after he broke his only belt - were probably too loose to do a show and interview in. Alternatively phrased for easier visualisation he wouldn’t have to undo his zip to piss if he didn’t want too.

Naturally as somebody who conformed to social decencies he stood around doing nothing about it for about five minutes, simply thinking how much it sucked before groaning to himself as he switched back into his faded denim jeans to go pester his bandmates in the other bus (a full five parking spaces away) about borrowing a pair. Thank God, that ‘Fall Out Boy’ consisted of members that could rebrand as ‘Five Feet Tall Boy’.

“Joe, my friend,” Patrick interrupted the idle conversations from before he arrived as he swung himself around the doorframe of the living area of the other bus where the remainder of the band conversed over their phones and laptops. Clearly not ready as seen by the ratty clothes. “Can I borrow some of your jeans?”

“Not unless you want to swim in cloth.” Joe tossed back nonchalantly.

“I’m sure they’ll fit me fine.”

“You’re more Pete’s size.”

 

“Pete.” When the shorter man turned to the bassist previously engrossed in his social media streamed he wanted to tell him to blast the grin off his face. He’d borrow far too many of the other members’ clothes recently and it so unfortunately happened that Pete’s did fit him best and had changeable fits around the waist he could tighten to fit into a comfortable position. Pete just lounged on the sofa though with his feet over Joe and a relic of a Metallic t-shirt ridden too high with a predicting smirk on his face. But he just huffed out the rest of his sentence. “Can I borrow a pair of jeans?”

“Are you that desperate to get in my pants, I mean if you want I have no objections.”

“Should I take that as yes, a _more_ than a yes?”

“Yeah, I think I have a clean pair or you can wear the dirty ones.”

Andy laughed from his seat in the chair on a right angle to them although unlike Patrick who was more stifling his laugh at Pete running his hand down from his phone over his crotch, Andy found the grimace the was plastered over Joe’s face hilarious. Joe was likely not to agree as he shook his head lightly and pushed off the lanky limbs over him almost pushing Pete off the couch in the process.

“You guys are gross.”

“Like you haven’t thought about getting in my jeans.” Pete clucked pulling himself up to lean close the Joe’s ear before seductively whispering; “To feel yourself in the same thing my ass has been in.”

Patrick felt it best to leave before Joe threw Pete’s seductive attention to Patrick and make him go bright red with embarrassment besides they needed to get going for the interview. The sooner the day was over the sooner he could relax. Damn, they weren’t ready and they needed to leave soon. “You need to get ready too guys, we’re going to need to be on set soon and its live broadcast.”

“Sure Pat!”

“Don’t call me Pat!” His smile dropped with the weight of anxiety that unexpectedly splashed forcefully onto his chest.

 

God, He was dreading this interview.

 

* * *

_“Your latest album has been an astounding hit with critics and charts alike. Were you guys as a band expecting that, how does it feel for you guys?”_

_“I mean I don’t think any of us expected it to do as well as it did. With music like any creative media, I think, it’s hard to predict so we always just hang out like hoping that it’ll do well if you know what I mean. We’re all really happy about it though and it’s all been so positive – right guys?”_

_Patrick let Joe speak. He didn’t comment and didn’t agree._  

* * *

 

“I swear you choose to play drums just to emphasise the punchline!” Patrick said swinging back half a bottle of cold water he wasn’t even sure was left out for him but had taken nonetheless to ward away the lingering light headedness of stage fright.

The messy room felt bizarrely alive with the lingering buzz of a larger than ever show and met and greet. They had all piled into the backstage room assigned to them with instruments left on the carpet and for reasons of which no one had nor would question, Andy’s shirt draped over the top of an old-style Microsoft computer. Fluorescent white lighting make the room feel larger than it was and the members giddy enough for Joe to throw his guitar pick at the fan though it thankfully missed. It felt like many of their other tour large wind downs with the songs of setlist still ringing through everyone’s ears and Pete humming out Novocaine. Perhaps it was the jetlag that all of them were suffering or maybe it was just good times but it felt more alive than anything that wasn’t a party should have at quarter to one. The atmosphere was enough to make Patrick cautious about how temporarily happy he felt that he bit down on his lip and flashed his eyes over the room nervously over he-didn’t-know-what but trying not to show it. It was brought back quickly enough to the sounds of Joe loudly starting to read out from a card he found on table directly underneath the lamp.

 

_“Dear Fall Out Boy, thanks for the second amazing show this week! We’re so happy to host you guys and thank you for gracing our humble stage with your presence. We cannot wait for your next and last performances here next week. Hope these muffins can tie you over after your energetic performance. (p.s. the ones with flags we’ve made specially vegan.)”_

 

“Oh. My. God. Andy, they got you something vegan.”

As per quoted; on the table was a plate with eight chocolate and vanilla muffins laid out for them and two with little white toothpick flags poking out of them. Immediately Pete and Andy sped over beside Joe to snatch the free food option. Patrick dissected it with his eyes from afar, they seemed rather large to be given two of and he guessed they’d taste not so great if they were free. He didn't even want to eat just sleep. Why would someone want to give him of all people free food – maybe to poison him or sabotage him. It sounds unlikely but there still remained a possibility if of the smallest respects.

“Fuck, give me a muffin.” Pete said stretching hand over grabbing a chocolate muffin.

“I’m alright for tonight. You guys can have mine.”

“Are you sure cause’ it’ll be like two seconds before you can’t take that back.” Joe said grinning wildly at the opportunity of spinning his night to a close on a greatly desired sugar high. He mostly asked the question to avoid being a prick and instead being a courteous friend aware of his friend feelings than to know the answer.

 

Pete however wasn’t as fussed as he snatched it off the table having finished his in no time, “Now it’s none!”

“Pete that was mine!”

“There’s another muffin guys.”

“Wait we can have both?”

“Patrick doesn’t eat after shows Pete.” Joe reminded him.

“Or like any other time near shows.” Andy chuckled through stuffing muffin in his face.

“I don’t get that nervous anymore. I haven’t gotten sick from stage fright since like Jimmy Fallon last month doing, what was it, Immortals?” He argued.

“But is _Patrick_ sure?”

 

“Yeah – sure.” He answered with only a second of hesitance that he replaced by taking a sip of the icy water pausing to ensure he could feel the liquid sliding down his oesophagus into an empty stomach – for unfathomable reasons cold water always felt better on the famished than it did the satisfied.

 


	2. I Expected You to Be Doing Something Other Than Stalking Me in My Sleep (I Don't Believe It's Routine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Routines were an unspoken staple of the band. Any inconsistencies were sorted, the small ones at least and large ones were... touched on.

Chapter 2 : I Expected You to Be Doing Something Other Than Stalking Me in My Sleep (I Don't Believe It's Routine)

“I’m going to grab a cab and see an old friend.” Joe stated clearing his throat of mourning voice. Eyes glued to the television hanging from the ceiling of the living space. As a regular and well-practiced slacker that was still forced to wake up at eight he was still dressed in his pyjamas and hair a curly mass of knots that were bound to be a painful challenge when he chose to make himself decent.

“Now?” Andy questioned. 

“After lunch.”

 

“Cool.” He responded passively, barely looking up but keeping his focus on pouring out the thick liquid of fruit juice and pulp that he’d just desiccated in the blender. Hazel pupils fixated on ensuring that not a drop went anywhere but the cup. “But you’re staying here for lunch?”

“Yeah man, but I’ll make myself something instead of your vegan malarkey.”

“Joe,” He feigned a pained expression, “I’m offended. Is Patrick my solitary supporter?”

“He’s vegetarian though not vegan.”

 

“It’s closer than you are.” Andy rebutted with newfound passion of his cause. “He supports it fully too. Literally yesterday he asked me about it – protein shit but he asked me about it still and he hasn’t always been vegetarian so you could totally do it. You won’t ruin your appearance either, I am the bulkiest guy in this band, right?”

“Yeah,” Joe sighed averting his attention from the screen, “but Patrick’s, one a stick figure secondly 95% sure he’s dieting again and finally he has the superhuman ability to do a full two shows on nothing but a Cesar salad.”

“Croutons can have milk.” Andy smirked at his friends mistake before realising it didn’t help his case either.

“See my point. He probably wouldn’t eat the same lunch as you on the daily either.”

“We can test it – I don’t mind inviting him to lunch. You just don’t like vegetables.”

“Go for it but not like when you just eat chips or poptarts.”

 

“I’m texting him now.” He responded grabbing his phone off the countertop and sipping his smoothie whilst typing with one hand and mostly failing in his attempt or rather failure. There was a reason he preferred easily played drums opposed to fiddly guitars and pianos.

“Before that, I’m going to my friend’s after lunch is that alright?”

“Yep and don’t worry about asking again,” He wasn’t about to let the other man’s OCD tendencies permit him to be questioned eighty thousand times again. “I’m certain.”

“Good.” Joe said satisfied that his arrangements didn’t impede nor upset any of his friends plans. It was simply common curtesy and out of the ordinary. Besides if he forgot to charge his phone or something he wouldn’t have to walk around forever because he didn’t know where he was and too embarrassed to confess his absentmindedness.

 

* * *

_And number one for billboard is ‘Novocain’ by Fall Out Boy, their third appearance on the top ten this afternoon and just some trivia for you, this comes off the highest selling international album on Germany’s top 100 in history – they sure have come a long way from the nobody scene band of 2001. Now let’s give it up, join in excitement and listen to the song!_

* * *

 

If you’d asked the band members if they liked change, every member would readily agree that they very much welcomed change however in all honestly only Pete really liked change to a large degree but none of them wanted to admit the fact because then people believe they sound boring. There was the unspoken routine amongst the members that seemed to have become second nature to all of them on their off-tour days after big shows. Unless there was a photoshoot or interview being done they knew exactly where each other would be and if not there was the group chat to keep them inundated with whereabouts and plans.

 

They all knew that at an hour like half past nine, Andy would be at the working out, Joe would be practising his guitar, Pete would be checking through business in his label and Patrick would still be in bed. It’s to be noted that these don’t necessary mean they did the same thing each time. Like when you say you baked a cake it doesn’t mean you made the same apple cake because maybe that poisoned your gran and you can’t bear to have apple cake so you made a blueberry cake. Joe for example was practising guitar by trying to superglue the worn strap he managed to break in their last live performance back on and Pete was lost in his nasty yet long term habit of procrastination yet sporadically managing to do some work.

Patrick was still in bed but he wasn’t asleep. In many respects, he wished he was asleep but despite the dream sleep patterns of a five-year-old consisting of going to bed at quarter to four in the morning but still waking up at eight he very much enjoyed sleeping.

 

The famed singer had decided a time prehistoric enough it wasn’t time stamped, that waking up was not done for himself but to please everyone else. He didn’t want to wake up and participate in life but everyone else wanted him to for their convenience. Even in high school he’d had to force himself to do something he couldn’t halfheartedly revise at home before school so he wouldn’t be consistently late for class – henceforth coming to school half an hour early to tune instruments and update noticeboards which could’ve partially contributed to teachers’ divisiveness to his evident lack of homework. He still largely blamed school for not teaching him time management.

In the Hollywood lifestyle aboard tour buses’ riding along monotonous roads or parked at the back of a venue he wished was home, there wasn’t the same opportunities for motivators. He’d found things to compensate alums ago though, perhaps not quite as productive a means of motivations but recording his dairy was something he had done immediately preceding waking up since he implanted it into his schedule – not that he had an actual schedule. Mourning’s retained the least likelihood of interruptions as even if he couldn’t see anything of the bunk above him then he knew Pete would’ve woken up and in any case, he kept the bunk’s bleak black curtain closed. Just like any other day he could be found on Thursday morning, half past nine, in the same faded jeans and printed jacket he wore yesterday, determined on remaining in his sealed bunk of toxic thinking. Writing down the dates as titles before subheadings periodically wondering why on earth he had nothing to write about except the same thing as always,

 

Breakfast 

1L Water Bottle – 0 Calories 

Lunch 

1L Water Bottle – 0 Calories

Dinner 

PB&J Sandwich (Minus Crust) – 245 Calories

Snacks

1 Cup of Unsweetened Tea – 5 Calories

1 Zero Calorie Mint Chewing Gum – 0 Calories

Exercise 

30 Min Run – -180 Calories

Net Total

70 Calories

Comments

Permissions to eat are allowed as fasting has been successful for a stunning eight days and to prepare for having to break this fast in order to remain in normalcy and keep up metabolism. Haven’t slept well, more fans seem to be about – I’m attempting to stay inside, feeling semi-hopeless.

 

 

In all honesty, he somewhat applauded himself for his ability to do maths and memories numbers. To be fair although the majority of everyone apparently found it impossible, he’d always been reasonably decent in maths without trying but he remembered the numbers without mixing it all up and he’d become practiced in writing so it was better than Pete’s chicken scrapes – also mainly in numbers.

Numbers dictated life for him these days. More than it had when it was just when shows started and checking he met the bills. His clad black cover diary was overflowing with numbers. As with all numbers it was simple in those means of set principles of constant – like most meals being at the closure of the day as a treat or the cause and effect cycles. 

When you eat so little it’s impossible then you’ll feel superhuman. It was remarkably comforting to have the motivators.

One set of numbers he didn’t like looking at were those that startled the shit out of him when it flashed up on his ringing iPhone sprawled at the opposite end of the bunk halfway hidden under the discarded blue blanket. He didn’t even need the numbers for this instance though. Hard-core Metallica music had always been reserved for Andy – and perhaps it was only his friends that could get him to put down his sacred book and listen to it. 

 

“Are you going to come have lunch?” Andy’s high pitched voice said with the grainy filter of electricity. Amplified to Patrick due to the pre-existing silence of the room and he wanted to hang up then and there but he did reserve decency. He only hoped everything he said next didn’t sound as alarmingly confused as he felt. 

“Pardon?” 

 

“Dude I texted you.” The drummer said with a sigh, how dismally typical, it felt to Patrick, that it was expected for him to be disengage in the extended universe. He hadn’t improved since elementary school when apparently TMNT weren’t cool. “Joe thinks you wouldn’t eat my vegan meals and I’d get Pete too but he would polish it off with ice cream. I’m going to make a quick beans, rice and stuff.”

“For lunch?”

“Can’t you come?”

“I’m kinda busy – no offence to your cooking but I just can’t.” He said with light hearted laugh and pulling his knees up until he was a pressed against the metal wall of the bus as if he could freeze time with the cold feelings blizzarding in his head. _They only want to invite you for their convenience, to prove a point_. Clutching his phone tightly in his hand, he knew the best ways to lie. Not too broad or specific, inclusion, somewhat vague and all his thoughts were honing into the one; how to springboard off whatever he’d just attempted that seemed as false as false could be.

 

“Well, you haven’t had breakfast I’m assuming, you can come earlier.”

“Got up early for once. Already eaten – Pete probably ate too much too.”

“Oh, inconvenient coincidence I guess.”

“Uh yeah.”

“I guess I’ll leave you then to work.”

“Thanks anyway, catch you later.”

 

He wasn’t sure if Andy responded because he chucked his phone back onto the springy mattress without hanging up. Despite the purpose of a phone being to phone people like many of the new generation he despised calls and kept them to a minimum. A case of ‘just text me’ and ‘if it’s so urgent why can’t you just text me?’ however in the more politely polished fashion of ‘I will emphasise that I text usually and make every phone conversation short as possible’ which made sensitive and emotionally aware lads feel less guilty about being a dick about it. He just wanted to stay in bed for another five years.

 

“You haven’t eaten yet.” Pete broke the silence by borderline yelling whilst he burst through the bunk. Opening the curtain to temporarily blind the stunned man with sunlight before it shut again getting caught on the shoe of the accusing brunette. When his vision came back, alright perhaps that’s slightly overdramatic, anyhow he realised Pete was now taking up 70% of the bunk lying across it whilst he stood like a stunned meerkat searching for his voice.

“H-Holy Smokes, Pete this is my bunk!” 

“But I’m lonely.”

 

“You poor thing. Still doesn’t explain as to why you were listening to a private conversation.” He said adopting a slightly assertive tone he didn’t mean to use but came in his protective strife for his cause. Pete’s cocked eyebrow tied him over, and not in the way it usually would, as he lingered into a more playful tone with a forced smile. To be fair, his fake smiles didn’t look faked – they looked uncertain and he knew that when he smiled it could calmed Pete. A useful tool for their recently hectic schedules that left his head spinning. “I mean it was with a member of our band but still, I expected you to be doing something else instead of stalking me in my sleep, I don’t believe it’s routine. What are you doing anyway?”

“Adulting for once. I was waiting for you to ask if you could do something for one of the bands on my label and I’m kinda bored. Then I heard you claim quiet adamantly that you have eaten. I know you haven’t though because you are still in bed. Are you guys having a cold-war styled fight or something?”

“Uh no, I just don’t want to leave my bunk. Laziness.” 

Pete poked his chest, “Did you sleep in yesterday’s clothes?”

 

“I’m not having a fight with either of them. I promise this isn’t remotely like Folie, I swear it.” Better to be phrased as, _I won’t let it_. Folie was a tenth circle of hell they’d left behind. “I didn’t go to sleep feuding – I reserve that kind of hatred for you. Do you feel special now?”

“Maybe. Why do you sleep in a jacket?” _Goddamnit Pete don’t look at my goddamn body, just joke around and be happy_ , Patrick shook his head lightly. The sentiment was appreciated and well placed however he didn’t feel it required and didn’t enjoy full attention. Within his head, he’d grown accustomed to sleeping in the day’s clothes and spending an hour and a half getting ready every morning. It was normal to return at hours in the single digits after running over a mile because he didn’t want to be seen exercising. 

It still wasn’t normal to have Pete’s face in such close-proximity to his crotch.

“Pete, kindly, get out of my bunk.”

 

“Alright, but promise you’re alright.” Pete said resting his hand too close to his silver spiral notebook for Patrick’s liking or rather his anxiety’s liking but it’s best not to think of anxiety as a sentient being. He was just worried that his friend was lying and he didn’t even know half of it, Patrick reminded himself, he wasn’t snooping around in things just yet. He even pulled up his pinkie and Patrick couldn’t not do that. 

“I don’t know why your making me do this but I promise.” 

“I have to worry about you Tricky – you’re stubborn besides… you do look pale and sleep deprived.” 

 

Though the comment earned Pete a wack to the head he could’ve, but failed to, evade whilst semi-hysterically fumbling out of Patrick’s claustrophobic bunk to allow him to change it wasn’t necessarily incorrect. Perhaps he didn’t look like the same wreck he felt when masked in stage makeup and after he spent the time changing clothes time again and again each morning but amongst close friends despite his attempts he couldn’t. He didn’t like to imagine it though – he liked to imagine he hide it extremely well and his friends didn’t simply not care. However even if his comment was true, the truth isn’t always beneficial. If anything, it prevented him from consuming his much-anticipated peanut butter sandwich that afternoon.

  
Comments

~~Permissions to eat are allowed as fasting has been successful for a stunning eight days and to prepare for having to break this fast in order to remain in normalcy and keep up metabolism. Haven’t slept well, more fans seem to be about – I’m attempting to stay inside, feeling semi-hopeless.~~

Stupid, stupid, stupid. You need to work harder, stop fucking everything up – you’re stressing PETE out. Don’t let conditions spiral out because some stupid things – keep to proven positive impact systems. **Focus. MAKE IT ALL WORK.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2626 words, Oh jeez this is longer than I anticipated, is longer even better or worse?!  
> Hey guys, hope you like the update - sorry I'm not the best at story writing and I admit it feels messy and out of character but it's something. I wasn't sure about this chapter so please comment. For someone Patrick's height ideal calorie intake is 1320 without exercise and adding his routine it's about 1600 so uh yeah. Also what do you think of the title?  
> P.S. you guys are lucky, I was gonna post on Monday but I went to make friends for myself today and I just feel great after having met this one girl who loves FOB so here's a treat


	3. We Need More Pizza Motherfuckers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes plans don't always stick - there are ways to redeem these faults though but sometimes it's best to just accept a fault than to go into the excess to fix them. Especially when recent behaviours have altered your personality.

Chapter 3 : We Need More Pizza Motherfucker! 

Patrick wasn’t a complete imbecilic – despite him usually partaking in dumb challenges and never really being aware of what most people were talking about. He knew that this – this thing he didn’t know how to explain – was unhealthy. When Pete ran his hands through the youngers hair on the occasions where he didn’t wear his hat, he’d pull out brittle blonde strands of thinning hair. The fedora rarely came off. Or a better example, when he had spent, a lazy Saturday bored enough to calculate his friends’ calorie intake, he’d discovered their’s far higher. On an occasion, Megan had phoned him about a diet she was trying that made her ‘just dying to steal a donut and binge on pizza’ that was still more than his set plan on an average weekly total. Even if he saw areas that he felt disgustingly flabby he knew his clothes were too big and he was ‘underweight’ according to digital scales.

He didn’t feel anything was seriously wrong though. He knew something was actually wrong when he had broken his oh so sacred rules and purged before a show that night because he’d gone above the daily plan for show days by so fucking much his stomach hurt and he can’t recall what it even tasted like. He knows it because he whole-heartedly detested public bathrooms yet still found himself practically staring at the grot on a public bathroom floor to try and adverse dizziness. God, he hated Midnight shows. 

 

The day started out brilliantly, fantastically and normally. He’d felt safe. Secured. Sticking to what he always ate on performance days since what second week of tour. Since… three or more months ago. It didn’t matter he supposed, not anymore. But his diary spoke everything he had to say.

Breakfast 

1 Bowl of Oatmeal – 120 Calories 

Lunch 

1L Water Bottle – 0 Calories

And that was meant to be it. Tying himself over with fibre skipping lunch and as much as he could of dinner. 

 

He isn’t sure how they managed to get him to not go according to plan. Perhaps it was the excitement of having planned to drag together a few existing and split bands under Pete’s label and allow them to bring along some friends. Perhaps it was that nobody knew they’d be there in the tiny little arcade comprised mostly of flashy dance and shooting games. For the obvious reasons that, you can laugh at people as they jump around trying to land their feet on the neon colours or swear their heads off when they’re hit count doesn’t match their opponents. That’s what he believed the appeal was at least but being a decent human being that he was, only laughed and whipped a sarcastic remark at people he knew because you never know if someone’s a sarcasm deprived android. 

Or perhaps it was due to the continuously refilled snack / dinner table filled with cute little calorific foods all atop a stupidly long table at the back. Or the fact that he had skipped the meal that Pete encouraged him to eat and choose to decline whatever Jordan offered him. Perhaps it was the this-time-only kisses he saw from broken friendships. It could have been so many things.

 

In any case, Gabe was a huge contributor. Mostly because he kept yelling ‘WE NEED MORE PIZZA MOTHERFUCKER’ or otherwise ‘WE NEED MORE FAIRY CAKES MOTHERFUCKER’ and really anything else he wanted with the suffix ‘MOTHERFUCKER!’. He felt envious of the joy of Gabe, who’d laughed hysterically over the pumped-up shit drug of the 2000’s called Sk8er Boi by Avril Lavigne.

Most criminally of all he had wandered over with his long lanky legs to Patrick, though the singer had become semi-lost when Joe had stopped talking to him to go play shooter games. Under blue tinted lights exclaimed, “You’re too skinny blondie, come eat some cake and fries!” or perhaps it was that Pete had been borderline Manic purposing pissing on the house next door to see who could go highest and the stimulus of neon, treble and people was overwhelming. That he couldn’t hide behind Pete when his mind was still cycling over the show only hours away with crowds of people who would be just as excited to see something he couldn’t do. It stressed him out.

 

It didn’t really matter either way. Really, he blames himself. 

He should’ve been able to continue to deny it. Yet he hadn’t and before he knew it under Gabe’s ‘Come On Dude, Seriously’ gaze he’d devoured far too many slices of pizza, guzzled down soda’s and stuffed himself with Garlic Bread. Before he knew it, he wasn’t thinking about how the place smelt of sweat and cheap aerosols but about how quickly it would take him to dive into his bag and snatch a box of emergency use only laxatives and how long it would take to kick in. 

 

All in all, three minutes. It took him three minutes before he’d grabbed his tattered old bag, helplessly searching through to locate the little white and blue bottle, taken way more than two laxatives. Now, whilst the situation appears bad and it admittedly was rather shit, it’s a notable feat to get from the main room to the bathroom and stop to grab his bag in such a sort time span – so if he hadn’t been panicking he would’ve been able to confidently say his running was actually doing something good.

It wasn’t a good situation though and he dug his hands deep into the pockets of long term borrowed jeans and bite down hard enough his light pink lips bleed crimson. The bathroom smelt horrible. Because it was a bathroom and smelt of piss. Even through the button up blue shirt hanging off his frame he could feel the cold tiles against his spine and heart in his ribcage. It felt like his thoughts and he wouldn’t even dare look at himself.

He promised himself he wouldn’t ever go through this again. He promised. 

 

* * *

_On fan votes we have Fall Out Boy at the top – who just happen to be touring in the city next week and I’m sure we’re all sure to start leaving our screen for outside on the prospect alone and we’ll not giving anything away but let’s just say we might be able to catch at least half a band during this time. Thank you very much – catch you tomorrow night._

* * *

 

The stall door creaked open and everything else was quiet in the bathrooms, where party noise was locked away and the sounds of his frenzied attempt to get everything off with dispensable pink soap was like a drowning forceful waterfall with hurricane winds from an overhead fan. Diverting attention from the mirror before he could see if his red hands would match a red face or contrast a pale ghost, he knelt down to his small black bag of stuff he shouldn’t be allowed and stuff he didn’t care to keep and searched until he found his little black book of solace under a jacket. Turning back pages until he reached the right one, tracing his shaky finger over the title ‘rules’. 

There’s nothing to save him from his glutneous felony though. He has rules for show day limits, daily limits, metabolism limits, safe foods, excuses, motivators but nothing for how to save him from this sort of crime. _Your voice will be shit, absolute shit. You can’t perform like this today sounding shit,_ his throat hurt and so did his stomach. He knows both those things will linger around for a little bit. From both the abuse of laxatives still stuck in his systems and the consequence of revolting purging. _How long have you been in here – your hands will smell of sick. You reek of sickness. Purging only rids half the calories. You’ve gone this far for half the calories. You’d best be safer doing it again._

 

The notebook’s grating across tiles before the bathroom door snaps to locked again with a bang of metal colliding before the shiny porcelain lid’s open for what is only the second out of many more to come before the night’s closure and he’s begging on his knees for there to be nothing but acid this time. 

The worst part is that it’s totally optional and he didn’t think twice.

 

* * *

_Pete Wentz Tweeted – Amazing audience tonight, looking forwards to seeing you all again. This was super fun and seeing you all made us ecstatic, will remember!_

_Joe Trohman, Andy Hurley, Susan Lu, Brendon Urie and 5 others liked this tweet._

* * *

 

Andy snatched the shirt that had somewhere managed to disappear midperformance off the dead mic and pulled it over his heavily tattooed build. He was eager as anybody to get off location and immediately pass out onto his bed in the usual tour style of not showering until even you accept you smell like a dog who’s just been running through the sewers all night to catch a rat and then proceeded to travel through a dumpster to return it to their poor owner. Or at least until you had to appear presentable again for curtesy’s sake.

As he was about to pace off back to the bus and listen to Joe asking him about a key, because naturally he probably forgot again, when he noticed Patrick was standing at his microphone looking at something he couldn’t see past the thick jacket that he’d pulled around himself and half covered his hands where all his attention seemed to have been focused. “What are you doing back on stage after the show?” Andy questioned as he wandered down towards the man whom looked evermore tiny in the huge venue.

“I left my picks behind.” He said meekly before clearing his throat and pulling up the two picks to wave about and prove his point still supplying a reassuring smile. He seemed like he’d break down to Andy. “Sorry about the show, I know my voice sounded a little rough.” There it was. 

“Yeah I noticed that.”

 

“Do you think the audience noticed? What am I saying of course they did – they’ll probably complain about it online or something.” Patrick pulled on arm over his stomach and started biting the pick with the other. A position he’d adopted far too much of late whenever in the first few minutes of anxiety before he collected himself – that or compulsively grasping any part of his body. Effectively attempting to shrink away. Whilst wearing a red baggy clothing that was made to pop under bright stage lights and propped up filtering cameras, it looked rather off.

“No, they won’t. Besides they blasted most of their own lungs.”

“What about people who filmed it?”

It’s hard to counteract valid argument. “Patrick calm down,” Except for with valid advice, “You’re doing that thing where you stress and wring you’re hands and are probably going to start pacing in a minute.”

“How noticeable was it?”

“It wasn’t.”

 

He shakily slipped his hand up to push back the blonde strands of hair fallen out of place from nodding in agreement. It appeared that long awaited crash course into bed would be taking an unforeseen detour including a phone call to Pete and seeing if he’d slept or was having the pent up emotional toll of insomnia again. Andy didn’t blame Patrick for any of that, they all did it from time to time under the illusion they could stay up off adrenaline and Redbulls only to realise that in reality they had been a mess before sleeping and Patrick had been off anyways. The sort of situations that camera’s and interviews don’t show. Patrick didn’t even move to leave just started biting at the pick again before the unusual redness over his otherwise pale knuckles caught his friends attention.

Across the section on his right hand Andy noticed that Patrick’s probably-too-pale skin was marked by two cuts on his first and third knuckle and three of the four finger knuckles were a fading red. Perhaps he was being slightly overprotective to his bandmate but he felt an immediate distress to see his friend that in his mind was still very much the oblivious seventeen-year-old who would get excited about going away from home for more than day.

 

“Dude you’ve scratched your hand up.” Andy fretted without attempting to hide the evident concern in a lighter, gentler voice to his already soft tone. The singer hesitated, appearing to only just note the minor injury airily searching for lacking justifications poorly hidden.

“I…” The drummer gently pulled up his hand surprised by how coarse and dry it was. His hand twitched and breath hitched. The pick fell.

“Hey we-” Patrick cut him sternly.

“It’s fine.”

“Are you-”

“I said it’s fine.”

 

His voice was tinged in murder. With the rough edge of frustration and self-defence that accompanied snatching back his hand fast enough that he could audition for Swiper from Dora if Swiper was instead a short white male that might just crumble into a panic attack. It scared Andy to see him to be scared. People like Patrick didn’t enjoy people seeing him afraid or upset unless he truly trusted them because he could barely control it. He physically showed emotion in minor mannerisms to dropping weight from under stress in a ridiculous time span. 

“Alright-”

 

“Shut up Andy, let me go. I have to go, I need to go. Now.”

“Patrick – shit!” Before he could think the little gremlin had forcefully called war on Andy’s balls with his shin. Despite appearing like a young Disney prince, Patrick was and always had been strong. The sort of person who would always kick the ball over the fence instead of into the goal but there was no goal to his violence. “Dude!” Patrick was gone. “Oh… fucking hell.” 

 

Wtf Dude – AH

Sent at 1:23AM

U ok? – AH

Sent at 1:36AM

 

Sorry – PS

Sent at 3:17AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, now I haven't actually planned this fic out or anything it's just shove stuff together and hope for the best so I don't know how good or bad this flows but I tried at least whilst being a cool kid and procrastinating but meh. Comments and everything is greatly appreciated - I love to hear what you think and yeah. Thanks, see you next update.


	4. In Cramp Quarters of Obsessive Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Rockstars need breaks at times, although it should be noted that break does not in fact mean breakdown in case you were troubled as Patrick felt.  
> TW: references to suicide

In Cramp Quarters of Obsessive Habits

They were watching _Rick and Morty_ at two am whilst suffering extreme jetlag. Lack of sleep didn’t feel a problem as they felt they’d readily adopt the stars as their new sun signalling the time of safety to leave and yet still wasted it sitting on a couch to brainwash themselves with television. But, that’s just far too poetic for a night watching a show comprised of fart jokes, existential humour, hilarious divorce scenarios and useless violence that’s mostly fashioned by an alcoholic. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds and a good opportunity to let loose and laugh.

Patrick was yet to laugh at much yet. Pete had laughed at everything and so Patrick smiled when he saw him laugh. He seemed ecstatic. Moving around on the furniture as if it were a jungle gym and fidgeting on the spot in the chain of nonstop chatter that had didn’t require more than one participant. All the energy that seemed to have drained the singer surged through the bassist appearing the only thing keeping him engaged in such nonphysical entertainment being the human decency not to wake people up. Not even the shivering cold that obstinately overcame the blonde would come into his singlet styled way.

Pete was always like that. On top of the world or carrying the weight of it on his shoulders. Patrick was happy he was higher, he just wished he could keep up. Although he hadn’t spent most of the day in bed this time at least. He still wished to be Pete. That he wouldn’t zoning out of the show and fail to connect events that should’ve linked together easily.

 

“Do you see yourself more as a Rick or a Morty?” Pete said a tone louder than before, having landing on a new conversation that would engage more than oneafter having shuffled through his own monologue.  

“Uh,” His words felt slower when they came out of his mouth. Stuck inside his mouth for a minute terrified of saying it wrong. Speaking slower than he overthought. “I don’t know if there’s a _good_ option to this.”

“I mean Rick’s pretty cool – he’s the brain. Morty’s sweet and even his anxiety is funny so he’s the heart. It’s that good old thing they have in like, twenty billion shows. Personally, I think I’m a total Rick you know! Neglecting the drinking problem, I can totally understand him, I mean not totally obviously but on a somewhat level kinda thing. That would probably make you Morty but like it might not you know. I mean it’s all possible in this wacky universe.” He stifled a laugh at nothing distinctly.

 

Blue pupils stared at the screen. Pete’s warm breath in his ear from where he practically vibrated. “Maybe Morty, I guess. I don’t know, neither feel right.” He looked at the animated, feeble boy incapable of growing a spine. Morty felt closer. He could relate to being the kid caught between a failing marriage. Blaming himself for shit. Getting bad grades too often than anyone had the right to do because he was spending his time doing other things. Even if his had been a band instead of space adventures. All that was different was he was obviously someone who had never grown out of that teenage persona and was carrying more pounds than the him. Way more pounds than him. Was there even anyone more pathetic to represent his own idiocrasy within a comedy?

“I’m Jerry.” The epiphany hit his mouth and brain simultaneously.

Pathetic, pity seeking, burdening and useless. Waste of goddamn space.

Probably better off dead.

 

His eyes prickled with an uncertain forecast of emotion. He had to stop thinking before precipitation rose high enough to cause rain and it all overflowed. His breath getting caught up so suddenly he could barely process that his friend had jumped trains again to find new topics after stating a short reply. Questioning why was he so incapable of doing the same thing and just moving on with things like a normal person at this point. Couldn’t he stop his eyes getting hotter with a film to blur the pop colours of comedy.

He felt static. Maybe it would’ve been a better idea to go along with Joe and get high on weed though that was simply a way to let yourself think more. Maybe if he thought more about relevant and useful things it would be better though this world is full of people who do that and where do they get, usually unemployed because what business requires philosophers anymore? Perhaps he could’ve found out what Andy was doing. Get lost in occupying himself. Instead he finds himself crying without plausible reason. He needed to stop thinking. Stop thinking so much. _But it’s not like you ever think smart things_ his thoughts echoed back.

Was Pete still talking?

 

“Hey woah, what’s wrong?”

“Wh-”

His voice hitched and he blinked letting a tear run down on a trail already made along his sunken cheek. _You failed you fucking idiot._ Something felt deeply ‘fucking wrong’ as he’d coined in his youth. And yet as logic would say (or his at least perhaps that of somebody unaware of everything) there was nothing wrong. It felt as if it were night when he felt overwhelmed by thoughts that paced their way upstairs only to be heard in footsteps at day had taken their argument downstairs and the knowledge of what was to come brought screaming. It was night but it was not ‘night’. He was simply being most unfortunately, himself. Permitting emotions to be used as display items. Capable now of seeing Pete didn’t seem to see fault but then again wasn’t he ever so brilliant at pretending. So much better than his friend.

Beloved Pete was more, well, aware and in the state of not-freaking-out. Pulling one arm around his friend’s shoulders as to gently run them up and down each in a bid for reassurance. “Is it the show, is that it? Do you want to watch something else? I really don’t mind if you want to.” He said altering his tone of voice to which the blonde’s state of mind churned into appearing condescending instead of comforting.

 

“N-No.” He sniffed with a wavering voice, _don’t cry now._ “This is good I just, I dunno.”

“Patrick, why are you crying dude?” He questioned.

“Nothing.” He smiled.

“Patrick.” Pete didn’t.

“It isn’t.”

“Why-”

Snapping without intention he gulped out; “I don’t know!”

 

“I’ll grab you some water and a tissue ‘kay.” He said quickly retracting his hands at the stern tone, feeling the radiating tension off the smaller man. His pupils darting over to the television in the top corner, bouncing himself between getting up and sitting back down to finish watching. “Uh, can I… you know never mind that. Be right back.” He said as Patrick failed to even his breathing.

However, with due consideration that dear Patrick was far from an idiot and did realise that Pete would likely attempt to discover why he’d suddenly crumbled to such a low mood to which there was no reason, he didn’t do as requested. It’s wasn’t that he didn’t want to, he simply couldn’t. He couldn’t imagine himself sitting there with tears and red eyes like a little kid. He elected to hide. To run to their shared bathroom and lock the door even if Pete owned a damn key.

He couldn’t do everything. It felt too much, he felt too much.

 

* * *

_“Do you have a phobia. If so, are you willing to share?” The blonde asked passing the mic._

_“I’ll skip this one, anyone else?” Patrick didn’t like lying on TV. It was gaining weight._

* * *

 

Pete would still come and check on him naturally. He was a good friend and he cared too much to have done anything less than that. When he discovered the television abandoned yet still running as soon as he came back and heard a door pull shut in the close quarters of a tour bus that hadn’t been cleaned properly, he knew. It felt horrible to know that his friend would rather lock himself away than talk but he still knew. And Patrick knew it was him outside the door and not Joe or Andy because he was tapping his foot with uncertainty pulsating with each fall. Pete always directed his anxieties into that foot tap like Joe would into biting his lip. But he’s already buried himself in isolation that he’s intent on keeping whilst it’s still possible.

He knocked in fun rhythm, but all too slowly to be fun. “Patrick, can I come in?”

“No.” He wanted him to go away. He wanted him to assure him that it’s all be alright.

“Promise you won’t…” He didn’t need to really finish the sentence. “Do anything stupid?”

“Yeah yeah.”

 

He wasn’t suicidal or depressed. He wasn’t pathetic. His friend was just jumping to conclusions as fast as he’d run away from the bathroom door likely to go intrude on Andy or Joe’s bus to either distract himself of fess up circumstance. Perhaps just to give him space to leave the bathroom and he alone in a bus with only two other rooms.

He wished he could ‘do something stupid’ as Pete had delicately put it more for him than Patrick. It wasn’t like it would be hard to do. Pete’s meds would knock him out if he took enough and Pete didn’t like taking anything but his anxiety meds. The other orange bottles were practically full and he probably wouldn’t miss them (or him perhaps). Likely not even notice their disappearance from the shelves. They were more for emergencies and even then, he despised them with determination that he didn’t need something like that. Patrick wasn’t going to be so selfish to take someone else’s though. He wanted to stop being such an inconvenience to them with all his weird quirks that had always held them back not be more of an issue. Maybe if he took enough of the mineral supplements, laxatives and diet pills at once it would double him over and he’d go out how he used to think it would end on his twenty first birthday.

 

He deserved more than that or rather worse than that. He deserved for somebody to stab him in the back and run it down from the top of his ribcage to down – that wasn’t right. Of course it wasn’t right, one shouldn’t fantasize dying and if you do so than you should probably get it check out because that’s rather disturbing. Yet it looped around like a catchy pop song. In his head, over and over and over and over again. A knife, a kitchen knife kept in the draw beside the red scissors. Plunged just below his shoulder blade. And he swore there was something on his back that was there to pull him down to hell.

That wasn’t realistic. That wasn’t ever going to happen.

It was more likely he’d get caught in the middle of a highway with a truck roaring down a bumpy track, incapable of stopping in time before he was killed on impact. Left to die, his body broke like his mind. Then he wouldn’t have to do this anymore and it would be easier. It would be him getting the hell he deserved for inadequacy. Make life so much easier for everybody else. He needed it. He desperately needed it and pills were so close to his suddenly shaking hands yearning him to do it. There was no seeing Pete but there was also no way he could to sit here for twenty minutes contemplating… life and win.

 

His stomach hurt. He kinda liked it. He needed that now and it felt like a saviour, a distraction. He craved it so desperately despite its torture that he couldn’t explain it. So, the best way to put it was that he was desperate in the same way it’s impossible for Romeo to just forget Juliet and it all ended in a tragedy.

 

He pulled open the cupboard, armlength away from the shower in touring’s confined spacing and pulled out an empty box ripping it open to write on the clear inside. Using stage makeup eyeliner to write out his calories for the week until his hands stopping shaking and his mind focused onto one thought pattern. Easily memorised figures with six days totalling into 0 calories in food although day seven was hell. Was purging at a party. It wasn’t neat either.

Scales were in the bathroom too. A digital silver scale that had a light blue screen and wanted him to hate himself. He could jot that down too, make a new goal weight. See how well that went. Reiterate when he’d take what minerals in an attempt not to faint for a third time that month. Take too many laxatives and see how he felt. Not enough to die but enough to not think clearly. He didn’t have many of those in the bathroom though, mostly in his bag.

He could even sit and count how many bones he could feel around his body like he could feel his spine on the wall and pelvis on the tiles.

He could stay here forever perhaps. In cramp quarters of obsessive habits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you thoughts I forgot about this, abandoned it? *raises from the grave* Think again! Sorry about the break been finding motivation hard and anxiety pulling me back. Yeah, Yeah I know this isn't the best but I tried and I'd love to know what you guys think about it and I'll try to improve. Hope you liked it anyhow!


	5. Bye Kevin, Douchebag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phone calls in hotel rooms that are too expensive to be feeling this lonely, with the only friends of early childhood that really cared who've lost the kind words through gradual comfort. The only way to continue is to face the people that made you nonetheless.

Chapter 5: Bye Kevin, Douchebag

 

It was reaching mid-afternoon, when they’d usually have been wasting time mucking around on guitars or pulling out a board game they’d put away before they started, when he decided he couldn’t just sit pretending that he hadn’t skipped brushing his teeth because somebody was locked in the bathroom. He didn’t even know what one would do in the bathroom for so long and not leave once but he had the feeling he didn’t really want to think too deeply into the question. Accordingly, as it reached to the hour he went and opened the door not caring what he saw and promising himself that he wouldn’t judge in any case as it was not his place to do so. He’d drunk his own piss so who was he to judge anybody.

Patrick had fallen asleep. His slender body scrunching up into a small ball against the wall and counter. His legs tucked up as to hold his arms close to his chest. His head was rested lazily atop his shoulders to push his soft fringe up and his foot nudging open the cupboard ever so slightly. He was shivering. Poor thing looked half dead, and not in a Hollywood style either.

Pete gently pulled his arm underneath Patrick’s legs and arms. He didn’t guess he’d be waking up any time soon. “You’re so fucking light.” He muttered to himself as Blonde hair rested into his neck. The younger’s body fit too loosely into his arms and he could feel the bones through his embroidered denim jacket. He must have weighed less than he did back in the ‘ _Soul Punk’_ day.

He didn’t know if it should’ve concerned him or he should just be thankful for small graces. He should get him something nice to eat when he woke up.

He took him to the couch. Hopefully he wouldn’t get too fired up if he awoke to being surrounded by all the cushions they owned and covered in a blanket. Pete would certainly not have but, then again, Patrick could get riled up by the strangest of things at times. Sometimes more so than others.

 

Pete brushed his spindly fingers through his spiky hair. He felt scared. Scared that he did something wrong or that there was something wrong with his friend that he couldn’t fix the simple way. He didn’t know if that was important now either just that he needed to do something for him. Something he didn’t feel capable of doing. He leaned down and moved the stray blonde strands of hair out of his perfectly still friend barely hearing his breathing over the distant sounds of cars passing. “Please talk to me about this Patrick, I can’t stand this any longer.” He muttered.

 

* * *

_xXFall-Out-The-Chemical-DiscoXx posted;_

_Not to be offensive but… has anybody else noticed Patrick seemed a bit, uh, emaciate? He seems like he’s going to pass out in the middle of singing._

* * *

 

 

If there was one thing that Fall Out Boy was good at – other than music that is or perhaps that came second – was sweeping under the rug matters that were big enough whenever you stepped on it the pain was more than that caused by lego bricks that don’t belong scattered around the house of an adult but for some reason are anyhow. Which is too much.

It was what they had to do. They’d say that at least but never take anybody’s words 100% true. Protip. It was why they could go one stage when their life was dwindling away; sanity held by threads without anybody saying anything that should be. Why Patrick could get away with never facing repercussions of his uncharacteristic actions.

One thing they also weren’t good at was minding their own business and upholding all relationships equally or simultaneously. Between touring they’d hang out sparsely to ware off the, every waking minute together until they hung out to make a new album. That sometimes extended to family, like the fact that Joe had muted his phone for some peace and quiet only at the peril of a receiving more than an earful when he missed his mother’s calls or how Patrick just didn’t answer his phone at all. Although he didn’t do that ever really. He’d never really been fantastic at it unless it was for business but even he had been stretching it when he realised he hadn’t spoken to a single of his family members for ludicrously long.

In fact, his shame in the fact, mixed with the realisation he’d listened to more Prince than he as a person’s voice he overcame the usually dread of how one’s voice seems nothing like what they sound like in real life but mutated mockery that the phone captures to make one hate speaking in case they could be recorded.

A underrated act of bravery.

 

He feels it his moral duty to answer the facetime call without the camera on – because the only thing worse than hearing one’s voice is seeing oneself. He never looked in the mirror without hatred. With the beep of ‘welcome to phone conversation hell’ he awaited the caller to speak. “Finally.” Was all he got though in a huffed, clearly disgruntled tone. Something he didn’t really appreciate. What should he expect from the person he knew had called though.

“Hey Kevin!” He replied with a forced enthusiasm he hoped wasn’t too notable or loud. Pete’s room was beside him to the left and Andy’s to the right. Hotel walls could be paper thin in some locations although they’d rented a much higher standard one this time – meaning he could feel comfortable of the mattress and not like there were just springs underneath him. Although he saw the cost cuts in flaking paint across the top of the wall that left swaps of beige compared to the cream coloured bottom. Not the he dreamed of complaining.

His enthusiasm wasn’t matched by his brother though. “You are the literal worst.”

“Uh, sorry Kev.” The blonde said unsurely tapping on the counter he’d pulled himself to sit on. “What’s up?”

 

“Did you just ‘whats up’ me?” He spoke with the sort of anger he had when the two of them were younger and he accidentally deleted his save on a Zelda game. He recalled the whole week he spent without his brother talking to him and feeling so guilty for it he cried for two hours and made his elder brother one of the worst tasting chocolate cakes that looked more like a mud creation than make, with bizarrely hard parts in the middle and managing to cook the egg to give in an omelette like uniqueness. His brother was really a dick about things sometimes, Patrick was always guilty for something though.

“Kevin I seriously don’t know what you’re mad about.” He responded.

“Yeah you wouldn’t. I called you-”

 

“I’m on tour.” He sighed with exasperation whilst he defended himself. He could practically visualise Kevin rolling his eyes. “Things are busy, and I don’t like taking family calls in public. I have my own room now so I’m taking the call now. I know I’m a pathetic dirt worm but like cut me some undeserved slack.”

“I’m not calling to yell at you. I’m just frustrated. Besides, I haven’t called you a dirt worm since you were like ten.” He’d gotten better at insults – that was true. He got called blubber ball, shit pie and many other better variants than ‘dirt worm’ because is there even a type of worm that doesn’t live in dirt. Space worms perhaps, or mars worm although that would be mars dirt anyhow, that’s irrelevant but a thought anyhow.

“Yeah sorry. I guess I’m a little riled up too.” He shrugged despite the lack of visual.

“How’s everything going with you then?” He’d adopted a kinder tone.

“Not too bad. Just number one of the billboards.”

“Also, why do you stop the camera when I facetime – that’s the purpose of facetime.”

“Because I’m a dick.” He smirked, “Are you that desperate to see your poor brother?”

“You won’t grace me with your face.”

 

“Grace? More like prevent you having to look at all the ugly.” The words slipped out his chapped lips without him consciously thinking. People aren’t supposed to say that sort of stuff aloud, but he couldn’t help himself. It made one sound attention seeking after all. That ended up happening on the days he does eat though, he’ll feel more shit than usually. Like how when you have an awesome day you’ll just end up feel like you were so happy before so why aren’t you on the bad ones.

“Anyhow, how’s work been for you? Is your boss still a dick and are you still silently crushing on your co-worker?”

“No actually, I was denied that privilege when she turned me down.”

 _Great conversation started Patrick._ “Aw Kev. I’m sorry.”

“I thought I could spring the good old, my brother is a Rockstar you know.”

“I wish I could spring my own I’m a Rockstar-” Kevin cut him off though.

“But Pete is also a Rockstar. Yeah, I can see a potential issue.”

“Haha, very funny.”

 

Since Patrick met Pete he’d made those jokes. That the good Christian child was falling to the hands of the bad boy celebrity of town, worse perhaps he’d fallen for an emo. Usually Patrick would get fired up at him before Megan joined in to side against him and he’d just sit and take it. Youngest children get that. To be fair they spent a lot of time together on tour and he used to talk about him daily, always stuck in his head. Now he could be more mature about it he supposed, Pete was pretty hot and nice in a totally heterosexual way. And maybe a little of a homosexual way too.

“Have you been sleeping together again, you two?”

“Kevin.” Fuck it, he totally couldn’t take it.

 “How is he?”

“He’s…” _~~Been acting super weird around me.~~_ “he’s Pete. Good – mostly – you know.”

 

“How are you?” He said with a break in the line.

“Good.” He said without second thought. It was something second nature, he could have the worst day ever, but it would make a conversation feel awkward and everybody uncomfortable if you admitted that. Genuine or not it was almost like a reflex to say good morning. Besides the sun was out and the birds were singing so the morning was good just not him. Besides, Kevin had bigger problems like his failing love life. “I’m good.”

“We watched your performance.” He said without indication to who ‘we’ was. “The concert last week with the guitar off thing ya’ know.”

“Oh yeah? We’re on again this week.”

“Don’t overwork yourself. Mum will kill me if you do.” Probably the second half of the we, god he hated to think people he knew personally actually watched those things.

 

“Well, I won’t. Besides a little more work will help me burn off the extra fat from fan gifts.” He snorted a laugh slipping off where he’d sat himself on the countertop to walk around the room and listen to his shoes tap on hardwood flooring – every bit of exercise counted. He adored every gift he got, he really did, but he couldn’t help but think them underserved.

“Uh… yeah.” Kevin’s voice held an tentative tone to it.

“Sorry.”

“What for?”

 

“I don’t know.” He snapped in admittance, had habit really. Assuming the worst. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You know you lost like a lot of weight.” Kevin said equality snappily. Runs in the family. Kevin could talk though, he never had weight issues like Patrick had. He involved himself in the local cricket teams and went out to play soccer with his co-workers. He was a proper jock in High School, with perfectly swiped hair and a laid-back personality that made one feel like they could trust him. Patrick hadn’t been overweight in high school, but he’d been an anxious ball of ‘ums’ and hatred for anything sporty. Not to mention the shabby haircut and glasses. What did Kevin have to say about weight? What did he know of hating yourself so much you feel guilty for making people look at you?

“I don’t really notice.” He mumbled loudly, speeding up his pacing around the empty hotel room. Each footfall a timer.

 

“Promise you’re not on drugs or anything.”

And now, before it seems that this accusation came out of nowhere it must first be understood that, it came rather out of a forgotten artefact at the back of a closet nobody bothered to open and looked rather out of place also known as the past. Something that had been rumoured about once and forgotten almost immediately by everyone but his family that were certain he had some involvement of illicit substances. That was also not true by any measure. And naturally one would be upset but such accusations.

“Kevin I never – I never fucking did drugs.” He spat the last word with venom.

 

“Listen, I don’t know how else you’d lose all that weight that fast. It’s not natural for sure and it’s freaking me out. Your veins are clear as heck and you don’t answer my calls. Last time you had a load of emotions you just turned to alcohol. You don’t turn on the camera and-”

“Bye Kevin.” He said with a suspiration and tossing his phone a few feet away from him to the couch. “Douchebag.”

He’d kept the gig up for over two years before, how was his delicate world deteriorating around him. He guessed he dealt with this last time too – just avoided them and got into fits with violent outburst and somehow managed to consume all his calories in a cheap bottle of fermented regrets. Of course, that wasn’t the problem with it all, the problem was he couldn’t stay in bed for two weeks or pass out without question. There were people to worry about him. Happy people he shouldn’t be bothering.

Why wasn’t he happy like they were. He supposed he wasn’t sad, he wasn’t thinking about offing himself all the time or anything, but he was riding fame wasn’t this supposed to be the happiest time of his career. Should he not be happily telephoning people to see his show and going out without worrying about wasting his money. Shouldn’t he be like the other guys were? They were practically the same having shared career and rough financial levels. Was he not alike enough to those happy people?

The only difference was their weight at this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a fever the last pew days so this might really suck and I'm too sick to notice but I will try nonetheless. So, like usually please comment and stuff because I love hearing ya'll thoughts about this. I tried reasonably hard on this and I am not great on dialogue minus actions - let's face it.


	6. Under Stars and Black Holes Alike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hotel rooms and late night talk, bright stars and a conversation unspoken, fame and fear. It's all the same sometimes and Pete isn't sure if he knows who his best friend is or if his friends could even answer that question. He only wishes he could.

# Chapter 6 : Under Stars and Blackholes Alike

                “Patrick, do you mind sharing a room with me?”

                “If I had a problem with it, I wouldn’t let you be in a bed with me right now.”

The two didn’t speak for a moment just continued to look directly into each other’s eyes across the hills of crinkled bedsheets as if neither of them had never seen something quite like if before. The soft mattress of a hotel bed booked for one but occupied by two seemed a fitting scene for late night’s unfiltered conversation that could easily be left for later or remembered forever.

 

Whilst they booked two rooms, Pete’s room had been occupied for a total of thirty-four minutes before he’d relocated himself to room 603 in the intricate dance of nothing at all and everything at once that they loved to perform. In most ways, Patrick didn’t mind it but in some he did. And he did when he wanted reassurance he was doing the right thing yet he still lacked that one thing cause he was too scared to break his lifeline to speak even gracious remarks in more than a whisper.

                “Fair enough.” He sighed almost begrudged.

 

Patrick cracked a slight smile of reassurance. He’d never want Pete to doubt him. He hated to think that he couldn’t have been trusted by him. Athough - when you think about it - nobody really likes to feel like they aren't trustworthy. “Do you mind sharing a room with me?” But he had doubt that Pete was entirely honest to him all the time. He didn’t trust anyone anymore. They really were a two way relationship.

“Never.” Pete gave him far too wide and toothy a smile.

“Then why are you asking?”

 

Pete tugged the corner of the blanket up as he shifted but Patrick cared more for his shift in attitude than the cold that briskly past his feet and made him shiver. He moved to look away from him, he couldn’t see the concern and anxiety in Patrick’s eyes and Patrick couldn’t see the earnest in his. “You seem distant lately. We don’t… well you won’t tell me what you’re doing or anything. I don’t know if I’ve done something or anything but I just… I feel like you don’t really feel as comfortable with me. When I ask you what you’ve been doing or where you were you don’t say it you just kinda avoid the question with like a joke or something. Like I know it sounds shithead crazy to say it while I’m in a fucking bed with you but it’s just – urgh! You used to tell me everything, we used to do everything together. You’d tell me if I did something to upset you right?”

“Pete…” _Don’t tell him, it’s not his concern._ “I don’t know what to say. Of course, I would.”

“Please.” He said with refrained sadness battering his voice.

 

“I’m usually in the bus anyway or wherever we’re staying.” He said with false confident he hoped to enstile into his friend. It wasn’t that Pete wouldn’t understand that he felt exhausted from everything he did, including socialising and existence, it wasn’t Pete’s job to worry. “I probably haven’t left the bus since-”

The elder stepped in with a factual tone. “Our last interview.”

“Uh, yeah.” _Fuck, I thought I was the only stalker here._

“And before that the show, the interview, the interview, the show, the radio. You never go outside when I offer or anyone else either just stay inside. Even then you don't talk or hang out as much like we used to and I get none of us are the most social guys but when like a few days ago I just got so happy you were coming to just watch tv and you want back upset. It really worried me.”

“I’m sorry. It is fine though.” He replied reaching his hand over to grasp Pete’s arm, but it didn’t grasp his attention as he continued to stare at the ceiling as he spoke.

“I want to trust you Patrick, I really do.”

 

 He sifted himself closer towards Pete intertwining their fingers. Waiting for him to jump topic because it had taken too heavy a turn and he couldn’t hide behind mild violence that they'd both regret. Smile about something with a recollection or tell him it was alright anyway. He needed that right now or something to focus on instead. Pete gave him something he supposed when he squeezed his hand back and turned over, so he faced towards him. However, refusing to permit his reassurance but looking down to him as he shifted closer again and unlinked his hand to pull his arms around Patrick’s shoulder only looking up when his eyes aren’t looking at him. He was close enough he could smell the mix of cheap men’s cologne and stronger scent that reminded him of new bought furniture in an indescribable way.

Patrick felt a million miles away though. Like a child who wanted to be reassured by his parent. But he felt no reassurance for he couldn’t see his friends face. Perhaps he was tearful, perhaps he was hateful, perhaps he knew his actions. He guessed if he was crying he’d be able to feel it through tremors in his chest, and yet his toned abs were still as stone. Even their clothing had become so different. One of them open whilst the other hide behind anything possible. That didn’t provide an answer though. Maybe he was in silent anger that would erupt after show in a possible concussion. “What time is it?” He whispered hoping he could hear some reassurance.

 

“Quarter to twelve.” He responded briskly looking up at the clock on the wall, just visible in the low lighting.

“I don’t want to go to sleep but I don’t want to get up.”

Pete painted on his smile to pull away with a concerned undertone over his forehead that he couldn’t figure how to conceal and turned to face him. His friend however didn’t immediately process that he had to return the expression as he stared up vacant yet wide eyed awaiting him to slip out words before he could show emotion. “I could be here all night, I could be here all day. As long as you’re here.” He giggled without the laughter.

And Patrick could remember to smile back. “Shut up.”

 

“Will you stay with me all day and all night?” Pete said ruffling his friend’s spiky blonde hair into a mess as he spoke and shaking off the strands that fell out. Seeing that he was already in bed Patrick didn’t seem too bothered by having his hair messed up again but still shook his head equally sleepily and playfully.

“I’d stay with you until I die Pete.”

“Then will you tell me why you haven’t.”

“I didn’t realise I hadn’t.”

“Will you tell me now?”

Patrick couldn’t.

 

In their tension, Patrick’s phone lit up with light rebounding from where it shone downwards onto the top of the beside cabinet’s hardwood black finish. The blue light stayed on and the vibrations went for a few seconds before either of them acknowledged it. “Sorry, just ignore it. Kevin’s been bombarding me with texts and calls recently.” Patrick said with a nervous tremor to his voice he tried to conceal by burring his head down into the pillow.

“Does he know what time is for you now?” Pete questioned.

“Just ignore him.” He sighed, God they can’t both be joining up against him. “He’s good reason to call but I have better reason not to care.”

“And what’s that?”

“Which one his reason or mine?”

“Both.”

 

Patrick left a pregnant pause, letting everything connect itself properly in his head before he accidentally revealed more than he cared to. He’d always been prone to either oversharing or being unsettlingly edgy. “Mine is that it’s quarter past ten and I’m in a hotel bedroom with you.”

“You make it sound like we’re going to be busy.” Pete said wiggling his eye brows and reaching his hand out towards Patrick’s groin and _oh god Pete’s touching my fucking groin. That hand better not go in my pants oh fucking god_.

“You make it sound like want to.” He blushed, but Pete couldn’t see in the dark.

“If you tell me why you keep evading my questions.” He pulled his hand away.

 

They were silent again. They used to talk every hour and every minute of every day and nobody could understand them at all. Now they could barely hold their conversation before it was deafeningly quiet. He didn’t want to admit it but knew exactly what Pete meant and he could only evade his questions because otherwise he didn’t know what to say. It had gotten hard enough to tell him he wanted to turn the heater up in the hotel and at the same time hard to say he wanted him to keep it low after he turned it up because he wanted to save money. He didn't know how to say he wanted to stay in bed all day. He didn’t know how to say that he didn’t know what to say. That he’d looked in the mirror and convinced himself it wasn’t a skeleton, but a blubbery whale and it didn’t take a second to do but rather was second nature.

“I guess you seem happy.” He sighed heavily through his nose and turned away. “If you don’t want to you don’t have as long as you’re happy.”

“Are you happy Pete?” But he didn’t respond. “Pete?”

 

* * *

Fall Out Boy Tweeted

Tickets already sold out 0.o – we don’t know whether to be happy or sorry to say tickets have all been sold out so soon. Hope to see those who bought the ticket soon! 

* * *

 

Pete’s eyes cracked open and there was an empty space in the bed that wasn’t his. A hard-white light assaulted his eyes from the bathroom door. He shifted himself up and propped himself up on his arm. Water spluttered from the tap as he heard it hit the sink before shutting off. Letting his eyes adjust he noticed Patrick’s silhouette writing something down into a book whilst leaning on the doorframe. He didn’t know what time is was, but he felt like it would be past 12 but by the lack of light still early, likely around two or three and mostly it was unnervingly quiet.

“What are you doing in the bathroom at two in the morning?” His voice held the low and rough tones of waking and it startled Patrick half to death. His book snapping shut and turning to face Pete.

 

“I had to go to the toilet.” Patrick’s voice was hoarse but quiet. He seemed tense with his shoulders hunched over a black notebook Pete couldn’t clearly see over his crossed arms. He held the book so tight his hand had gone red, as if had he let go his world would be destroyed. He looked guilty but not like a child but more like a scared animal that hadn’t get figured whether to use flight or fight responses yet and reverted to freeze. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

Pete didn’t feel it right though. He felt confused and not just the midnight haze, but he felt angry about he-didn’t-know-what and his accusatory tone reflected that. “Why’d you take a book to go to the bathroom then?”

“I was working on writing some stuff.” Patrick mumbled moving closer to hug the doorframe.

“Even in my insomnia battles I don’t take writing to the bathroom.”

 

Pete kicked the heavy white covers to the floor and stood opposite Patrick approaching him but not getting too close. Patrick’s whole body was shaking. His hair in the adorable messy bed hair way where it stuck up everywhere, but Pete imagined he looked just as dishevelled. The trembling man looked drained from all blood in his body although that might just have been the way he looked in the light. For the bassist, his mind immediately jumped to darker regions he’d once lurked having been trigger by his earlier questioning that made him feel sick to his stomach at least. Perhaps he realised how he looked like he might just have a panic attack because he quickly tried to shift himself to mimic Pete’s more relaxed posture.

“Don’t shame me for my weirdness.” He whined playful walking stiffly over to the bedside without turning the light off in more of a fixated pursuit to put his notebook away in the hard wood place cabinet.

“As long as you’re sure it makes sense.” Pete responded lightly, he didn’t want him to panic.

 

Patrick paused for a moment of hesitance before turning over to stare Pete directly in the eyes. “Can we go on a walk?”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Under stars.” And all the black holes alike.

“First we have to get dressed unless you want to go out in batman pyjamas and I’ll get frostbite in boxers.” Patrick giggled with a high-pitched tone at his prospect. Pete smiled back, he liked to see him laugh.

 

* * *

 “I’m in tour mode right now, which means sleeping when I’m not up or being passive aggressive to get space. Basically, being Patrick.” – Pete Wentz on Rock Sound Magazine 

* * *

 

Pete ran his hand along the icy tops of the metal road barrier. It wasn’t snowing so it wasn’t that cold, but he felt were it just a few degrees colder and it would have been snowing. Sometimes it snowed in early morning and disappeared with the morning sun, Pete always wished to see early morning snow for reasons he couldn’t think. As if it would be different to see something had no one else seen it.

He’d never really been as affected by the cold as Patrick had been. Even in Chicago he used to go out in shorts and Patrick in a jacket. He’d pulled over a warm red hoddie that probably shouldn’t be worn out due to the fraying ‘Yeah, I’m In A Band!’ slogan and some pants he didn’t believe had been washed but maybe Patrick was kind enough to do both their laundry. He felt comfortable in the weather. Patrick on the other hand had his arms pulled close to his chest with a denim lined jacket over his shirt and jeans that hung around his ankles. He still looked well presented, he'd taken more pride in his appearance with the increase in fame. The jacket looked too big on him though, making him look like a kid.

Pete liked it better outside where he could see the stars dance across the dark colours of tantalisingly dark blue. The hotel was too confining and as he and Patrick chatted about movies that were probably worse than either of them wanted to admit.

“You look adorable in that big jacket.”

“I’m freezing.” Patrick said purposely shivering.

 

“Is Wisconsin not giving you as warm as welcome as you were expecting.” Pete said laughing far too hard at his own pun and playfully elbowing Patrick about it as they strolled down the pathway.

“It’s freezing my balls off!” He defended in a playful huff.

“Come on – we’ll be in Chicago soon and it’s colder there.”

 

“Yeah but Chicago’s home.” Patrick mused with a nostalgic hum.

Pete was always more an enthusiast than nostalgist. “I’m dying to go home.”

“I know – it’s still like more than two weeks away and it’s all you’ve been talking about.” He teased with a playful tone crossing another road without looking for any cars that could run him over. Pete ignored first instinct to pull him back from the reckless action, there was nobody out except the insomniacs. The long stretch of street scattered with shops, bar and all of the like was equally empty except one or two people standing outside places smoking cigarettes or talking.

“Hey, I don’t talk about it _that_ much.”

“Yes, you do.” He said in a singsong tone.

 

“I can remember back when I first met you. I’m pretty sure you were in complete awe just because I’d been in like one band before that didn’t fail in a week.” He mused aloud rather than spoke. “You were like in high school too so for band practices I remember just picking you up from school with Joe into my car and both you would vent about homework and teachers. Joe used to always be on about his hair then. I don’t even remember what I was into then.”

“Metallica mostly.”

“Ha ha, that’s _hilarious_.”

 

“Thanks for coming out tonight Pete.” Patrick said with a wide smile. “You’re a really awesome friend and you watch out for me. Probably a lot more than you have to, you know.” He said offhandedly as it meant as much as an extra handful of dirt in the pot plant – which is not at all by the way in case that was a bad analogy.

And with this, a thought creeped into somewhere it Pete’s brain like a sly creature of horror. The thought that perhaps Patrick wasn’t being genuine and maybe he just wanted to shut him out. To tell him in a polite way to ‘get the fuck out of his problems’ and though he desperately hoped it wasn’t but the thoughts was there. He almost wanted to tell him everything he had heard about and read, every he he knew that he didn't know but he didn’t want to lose his friend like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I tried to make that last part a little more lighthearted cause lets face it I've been putting Patrick through hell with this whole thing. If you couldn't figure it out (cause I can't write) then Patrick just like purged again which we know he doesn't like doing. You sensing the rising action or is it just me?


	7. I Never Asked You To Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes life has a funny way of telling you things, sometimes friends have a funny way of showing concern and sometimes life has a funny way of interfering with anything and everything - or maybe something was getting in the way of life.

# Chapter 7 :  I Never Asked You to Care

When he was nine Patrick remembered standing in his seat, staring mostly at his scuffed shoes and having to answer the teacher’s question. He remembers the wave of fear he felt because he really did want to tell her that he did know how to classify that it was a mammal. But he just knew people would judge him completely according to how he said it and there’s a substantial difference in ‘zh-ebra’ and ‘ze-ebra’. The fear of saying it forced his jaw shut until the teacher snapped something that made sure he’d never put his hand up in class again, “Don’t just pretend to be shy.” 

He thinks that’s one thing he always goes back to. When he’s on stage and he decides that, he has to do anything to avoid embarrassment however he can’t hide away and ‘pretend to be shy’. It is rather idiotic, he supposes, to go back to something from before double-digits but he can’t help it anymore. Anxiety is the only thing that keeps him from living in his bed and instead engaging in the real world. Heaven forbid he continue in inadequacy when he should be at least in mediocracy. And he can trace this one back to know what people think.

His own thinking’s mostly been stuck in the past lately anyway.

 

So, everything’s in paces just like how he needs to get ready before his bandmates. He stops to organising his thoughts before their performance. It’s a full venue again, a crowd of people to entertain awaiting to be dazzled. Blown away by their idols exercising such bravery as to stand openly on stage for the world to see and accepting of the possible judgement laid upon them for the love of what they do. He wants people to feel like they can follow that, so he resides himself with his hand pulling his hair as he mentally practices midperformance comments and stories to himself. Some days are worse than others, and luck would grant that today was one of those. Really it should’ve be expected by now, it’s like when you trip on an undone shoelace but don’t do it up. It’s going to trip you up again unless you stop and address it, but you’re fine if you don’t, right?

 _There’s going to be so many people watching you and you can’t crush their dream._ He has a bad one when Joe walks in but thankfully he’s not way over the top. Some people really get into it and he knows that. _Your clothes don’t go with this lighting,_ Joe seems to be there to grab something anyway because he doesn’t take much note of where he is leaning against the wall his hand pulling down the back of his neck. _Remember your story, but don’t sound robotic and keep your emotions in it all. Keep up with the crowd’s energy and keep them hyped_. They’re both familiar with pre-show rundowns in any case, I mean anybody is usually good with something they’ve done for years.

Joe walks past him humming a tune Patrick doesn’t care to place but sounds like it’s not one of theirs in any case. _Don’t forget any of your songs you twat, you always panic and forget your own lyrics like a buffoon._ It’s a nice break of silence though and make it feel less awkward when he sees the taller man dips into the bag on the counter for something or another. Back rooms are always abundant in zips and bags, and a wide mirror opposite the counter that lets you look at the couch and chairs and table and everything, it lets everything see you, _everyone will see you, all eyes on your lucky singer. If only that was a worthwhile sight eh?_

 

Patrick’s startled when Joe’s hand clasps his shoulder with a light grip. He draws in his breath almost choking himself as he’s suddenly staring into dazzlingly blue eyes. _His eyes are his best feature or maybe that his hair or maybe it’s everything, but I have everything as my worst feature._ “You okay Patrick?” Joe’s searching his body posture more than his face. _God, they’ll take photos of you and they’ll be there forever._ He focuses on Joe’s hair, where it flows out in large brown curls. He can trace those without feeling uncomfortable in eye contact.

“Yeah, I’m fine, why?” He relaxes his muscles and adjusts his facial expression.

 

“Maybe because you’re wringing your hands and your brow is like halfway to knitting that scarf by now.” Joe kept a lighter tone, he knew it was best not to get accusatory about these more than Pete maybe not as much as Andy. _You can literally see that 350 calories you’ve had today for sure you twat._ But unlike Andy he balanced it in humour that Patrick didn’t laugh at _how rude of you_.

 

Patrick himself, hadn’t noticed that he was doing it until it was pointed out. _God don’t do that onstage you idiot, I don’t to do this on stage or I’ll have to kill myself_. It was more a nervous tick thing that was unconscious and another little habit that ran through his life. Like when you start calling somebody by a nickname and then accidentally repeat it in front of your friends who then start repeating it and you’ve lost what used to be specifically because it was yours. He felt almost as if he couldn’t stop himself from doing them unless he just stopped his brain – _but you need to think things through you’re not like other people your slower so if you don’t think you won’t keep up,_ – but he shoved his hands deep into his pockets to stop himself.

“That’s hilarious Joe.” He clucked with a smile. “Half a scarf is all I can make anyway and even that’s only half decent.”

“Dude you’re the most talent out of this band.”

“Thanks for the compliment but I think my egos high enough on fans’ praise.”

 

“I’m serious though.” Joe ran his shoulders over his back to sling around his shoulders, “You keep talking down on yourself and I know you feel obligated to be everyone’s best friend as if you’re accountable for the world’s happiness. I don’t want to be an Instagram post saying you’re not allowed to be sad cause that’s not healthy either, but you haven’t exactly been yourself.”

“When did you become a therapist?” _God don’t worry them, friends don’t worry people_ he shook off his arm retracting to face him straight on. It’s a funny thing to be anxious about those who comfort you almost like your running to them on a wheel that will stay in one place no matter how much effort you put to confide in them. “What sort of before show conversation is this. It seems to be about more than furrowing my brow.”

“You know, I do notice when you freak out before shows.” He mumbled it, admitting taboo to its topic.

“Freak out is an exaggeration don’t you think? Maybe stage fright.”

“No, freak out fits the bill of your actions best. I’d know.”

_That sounds rather accusatory, I mean it’s pretty lame don’t blame his annoyance._

 

“Have you like been stalking me as well?” His tone, dropped out of the joking front. He snapped out without thought, _oh you idiot_ , and he didn’t stop himself afterwards. It was like when you’ve been socialising with people out of curtesy and then you go back to people you genuinely want to talk about and bitch about them, but he was bitching about life and he didn’t know how to articulate his real issue. “Like what the fuck is up with everyone, literally yesterday Andy told me that I sleep too much. I mean I love to sleep what’s with that?”

“Is everything okay Patrick? Just answer me that, you’re already killing Pete with worry.”

“Everything’s fine.” _Of course, Pete’s into this all._

 

“You shouldn’t freak out about this, you’re a great singer.” The blonde smiled at his comment. _A great singer won’t matter if your guitar isn’t tuned. I mean what if you get the wrong strings and it won’t matter when you totally forget everything. He’s just trying to make you not stuff up again anyway he doesn’t mean that. Oh god what’s the point in even trying to._ “Hey, off topic but we haven’t hung out recently despite ya’ know being the same place. Why don’t we all go to a restaurant or get pizza for a night.”

 

Pizza, that’s an average of 300 calories per slice in most places and usually they’ll get something that could go up to 400. It wasn’t nutritionally rich, and nothing outweighed the sins of 400 calories of something that wouldn’t keep him up on energy. He could get that energy from like three caffeine pills anyway. _I mean do they just want to fatten you up?_ He felt himself choking again. _You can dream about it all you want that’s fine; kinda pathetic you spend most of your time thinking about it, reading on it and doing quizzes on food but like that’s not eating at least. Am I just secretly a foodie that’ll succumb? You can’t stop the one thing you’re good at!_

“No. N… no thanks.” He stumbled over his words tripping over things and he couldn’t get them out fast enough. The numbers pile in his head and his self-consciousness clogs his veins to force his chest to constrict around him. He’s so tired of this, _must look tired and everyone can see that_ , “I’d… getting something vegan for Andy’s always a hassle.”

“Dude you love pizza. If this is about pizza, then you won’t gain weight off a slice. Just splurge.”

“You can say,” _And I cannot,_ “I need to starve to lose a pound.”

Joe’s face fell. “Dude don’t diet that hard. That’s cause your skin and bone already.”

 

“I’m not on a diet. That was a joke…” He couldn’t recover himself fast enough. “I don’t know why I said that. Forget it, just forget it. I know Pete asked you to talk to me anyway, just leave me alone. I need to get ready, my instrument; I need to tune it.” He dashed himself out of the room before either could continue to talk. _Just push me him away, it’ll save him your bothersome arse._

 

* * *

 

I_Refuse_to_Leave_2005 tweeted:

Saw Fall Out Boy again Pete’s still an emo at heart, Joe’s hair is goals and Andy make me hard as anything but my front man lost all his plush ) : awh well he’s still an awesome vocalist!

 

* * *

 

There’s something inexplicably personal about self-hatred and doubt. You don’t ever really want to admit to anybody that things aren’t going right for you and you haven’t had the motivation to even finish writing a shopping list, so you find your own time to do it. Just to imagine it, picture it like masturbation, it’s like opposite though masturbation. Instead of pleasuring yourself you depress yourself in a way. You sit staring at a wall or broke down in tears scrunched into a ball because it’s scary.

Especially if it’s over meaningless things.

 

Besides, you can't bake a cake without breaking a few eggs, unless your vegan and don't support consuming eggs because that's 'murdering' unborn chickens. A vegan would likely do the opposite of the saying's implications and melodramatically mourning their actions - not that there's anything wrong with being a vegan. Similarly, Patrick was on a more-extreme-than-vegan diet and eating an admittedly delicious mango pancake, but this situation felt different.

He'd never broken down over food in public, or in front of anyone but maybe some of his family. Alas it felt overwhelming. Everything shattering into the moment and he couldn't handle it. He sat to eat dinner in Joe and Andy’s bus in his usually corner spot. Having had left only some of one taco behind (minus the shaken-out fillings of the others), that’s what he promised himself he’d do. He wrote it all down already,

 

Dinner

2 medium soft shell black bean tacos – 360 Cal

Comments

Joe’s been asking me to eat something since I idiotically slipped the comment. I can order more and slip them instead, but I don’t want him to be upset. I’m doing this for them after all and Pete’s starting to worry that I’m not eating regularly. I will not let them know, I just must be more careful. They don’t understand.

 

If you are observant, or you know just reading full paragraphs and not skimming sentence, a mango pancake wasn’t on the list but was mentioned. That’s because that wasn’t his idea. That was Pete’s idea to be generous and offer Patrick half that wasn’t apparently allowed to decline for no reason than Pete wanting him a personal hell.

Whilst he might have been able to avoid suspicion whilst harbouring two tacos in the inside pocket of his jacket, but he couldn’t hide a calorific mango pancake when he shared the plate with Pete. _Dear God, you have to do anything to avoid that._ And he’s unsure why this is the time that he shuts him down.

 

“What the fuck is your problem Pete just leave me alone!” He fumed smashing his fist down with enough force to shake the table and send his untouched fork clanging to the ground. He doesn’t know what lead him here when it comes out echoing in their bus and neither does it appear his friends do.

Pete cowered back. The light conversation that Andy and Joe were having shattered because Pete asked if he was going to ‘just try a little bit’ of something sweet. But his initially fear could not remain for they’d history, long history of outburst to resolve issues. To a point that it felt like they were regressing into something they should never do but was second nature. A guilty pleasure. Felt by both the participant and the two bystanders that watched silently with wide eyes.

 

“What’s your problem now Patrick? I haven’t fucking done anything!”

“Well what haven’t you been doing then hmm? I – I mean you’re not giving me any space. Maybe I don’t want to eat your dumbass pancake you know maybe – maybe I just don’t want to do it you know. And like I don’t know what your problem is that means you’ve got to be on my back about this because you know you fucking don’t have the right to do that. I mean who knows what that place put into this, this thing anyway.”

“Maybe I have to be on your case when you just yell at me about everything.”

 

 _Why are you doing this, is this the only way to avoid it._ It wasn’t that he didn’t like it. Because he really knew already he’d have loved it but that’s not why he didn’t want to eat, and it was infuriating. He felt so frustrated. The upset sort of frustrated where he wanted to burst into tears at a single word and kick the table over. He pulled his jacket closer around like a shield, defensively putting one hand on the back of the chair ready to retreat and staring him in the eyes.

“Guys stop.” Andy interjected firmly, standing up to take authority, like a responsible adult in a room full of children. Nobody listened to him though as Pete leaned closer towards Patrick neither of them backing down on their defences. A certain sharpness in his eyes usually soft that scared all of them.

 

“I don’t yell at you about anything jackass. Don’t pretend you know shit when you don’t.” Patrick glowered.

“Well I know that you don’t either.” His voice got louder as he shot up leaning over his friend with a looming presence as his hoodie laces hung near the blonde’s eyes. “Even your own fucking brother thinks you’re on drugs and when you act out like this over literally nothing after being perfectly fine with everything minutes ago; I don’t know but you might as well be.”

Andy fell back into his seat. Adrenaline pumped through all parties and flight, fight and freeze were manifesting two out of three. Both the seated party’s brain’s wracked with confusion and grasping at straws to understand. The singer’s head heated with anger, the pressure cooker than had been building over days exploding with a boiling water spraying and burning what it touched. Before thought or sense could interfere Pete was attempting to recover his footing from being pushed back and hitting the opposite bus wall that was the downfall of small quarters as he just avoided the sharp point of a cupboard handle. It deterred nobody. “What the fu…” Joe muttered in disbelief.

“That was a private conversation Pete.” His teeth grinded together forcefully as the words hissed out chapped lips. “I don’t eavesdrop on your phone calls so why the fuck are you doing that with me?”

“Because I’m not the one who shut themselves in their room and just wants to sleep all day.” Tears broke free of the bassist’s eyes, but they didn’t fall. “I’m not freaking out over everything and asking everyone for reassurance. I’m not isolating myself to stop talking to basically anyone then coming back like oh this is all fine.”

“I don’t-”

“You can’t even acknowledge it for fuck’s sake.”

“I never asked you to care!”

“Then just fucking talk to me!”

 

Silence fell for all of ten seconds. In for all of ten seconds Patrick’s thoughts culminated to realise how terrified and vulnerable he felt and that he was about to start panicking. That Joe and Andy were staring at both of them and that Pete wasn’t playing his games. That he wasn’t in fact doing as good a job of hiding everything as he believed he was and maybe something was wrong. That he had fucking tacos in his pockets. _What the fuck are you doing with your life?_ Enough time for him to realise, but not enough time for him to understand. His head was spinning, and his vision couldn’t keep up with his eyes. He felt himself shaking like Pete felt himself filling with the beginning of his own realisations.

Because neither of them could do this and their delicately woven veil was lifted to at least two to other people. And everything said was true on one of their parts. It’s not easy to say that either. Especially in the silence of what’s supposed to be a good friendly meal that may or may not have just been there to get Patrick to get out to do something even slightly social that should probably be more of an intervention, but nobody was saying that.

“I’m sorry.” He announced clambering his way out towards the bus stumbling. “I can’t do this.”

“Where the hell are you going?” Pete snapped emotionally driven to keep him nearby.

“I can’t. I’m so sorry. I have to go and don’t even think about any of you talking to me.”

“Hey –”

“Fuck off.”

 

* * *

 

 

Next Up: Fall Out Boy’s highlights from the live performance only last week and a special behind the scene short with interview Andy, Joe and Pete from the band. Stay tuned to hear billboards top hits of the lists coming after the break.

 

* * *

 

 

Patrick knew he'd never faint on stage. He knows that because he forces himself into eating before shows because he doesn't want to cheat his fans of a half decent performance. Always assuring himself with the thought that he can work it up on stage to get it all out in energy. He knew that he best eat something in the morning and it was 400 calories for the brain to function, even if he mostly decided that he could just burn off the fat hanging around him to get that off. He deluded himself to doing it in a safe way.

He never imagined that he'd faint when he's doing anything else though and yet he feels like he's going to already just on the pure amount of thoughts racing through his mind. He never imagined to be feuding with his bandmates again to a point of storming off in the night. He knows he should've eaten more in general. That he should have eaten more to appease them. That he shouldn’t have made himself sick in a bush in the parking lot. He never thought he’d be feeling so disgusting and frightened when he was walking down the street still with people here and there. So ashamed of himself for having the audacity to exist.

 

It’s disorienting. The car lights are white, but the streetlights are shallow yellow. He can smell petrol, smell a cheap fish ‘n chips store just down the street but mostly he can still smell the regurgitated stomach acid on his fingers and his throat. Each step he takes feels like it’s going to lead him to nowhere but at the same time he feels as if he’s been walking for days, so far away here because here people are happy. People are with friends laughing or alone and determined to reach one location. He thinks if he has one location to reach it’ll be heaven, but he’ll never get in to heaven so it’s realistically hell and that’s all he deserves. Well, actually, between those friends he had and anybody who knew him, he deserved a second chance but there’s no convincing him that so might as well not mention that side.

Everything had already been building up to his demine of the first chance and it broke out. He couldn’t head back there though, he’d rather go into an actual restaurant and be surrounded by food than face people who cared about his wellbeing right now. What would they even have been doing now, maybe they forgot about him or given up on him or perhaps they were out to go look for him.

His jacket doesn’t keep the cold out nor does the three layers below that. Just like the calculations and starvation don’t drown reality in the intensity of life.

Breaking the fast was a slow process, and he didn’t want return to life where everything was on fast forwards forever.

 

He hears a girl laugh with liquor on her lips before he can feel his stomach drop down in his body and his knees lock together. Nothing delicate lulls him down but gravity intensifies until his head hits the pavement. Had he been paying attention then a black hole had festered inside his brain when the solid ground became jello and that the clarity of edges blurred to one. But he wasn’t paying attention.

There's no warning to anything for him, there's just him falling. He supposed that there was warning before the last few minutes, he felt lightheaded and disconnected from reality but he always felt like that. He guessed he might've always been on the edge of fainting. In movies though it looks better, you don't see the world in slow motion or maybe you do but he didn't. He collapsed unceremoniously, with his body limp and his eye lids slipping down

Funny thing about fainting though is that you're never shocked by it, because you're unconscious. Meanwhile everyone who is conscious can feel shocked because, unless you are in a very dangerous environment that most would recommend you leave if this this isn't the case, fainting isn't a customary practice and is something best be avoided.

 

He hates to think his life will be so stereotypical that it’ll climax around a hospital admission or that it was a stranger from the quickly surrounding crowd and not his friends that found him out cold on hard concrete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this really hard to write, like I cannot write actions and anger I much more passive but I tried at least so like that has to count for something (or at least I hope it does). But yeah, now everything is really not going Patrick's way. So I'd adore to hear what you people thought, and you know anything you want to say. Thanks for reading another chapter too also did I mention this is like way longer than normal, jinkies!


	8. You're Sick, Lunchbox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hospitals are cold places. They feel devoid at times and other times they feel so emotive. It's hard to figure things out in these circumstances. It really is.

Chapter 8: You're Sick, Lunchbox

When he woke up there was nobody with him, nobody but the machine beeping out it’s signals of life. The smells of chemicals and surroundings of sterile blue to comfort him. It made him feel rejected. Alone. In a childish sense almost. He’d never been in hospital as an adult only when he was a kid and once as a teenager when he broke his arm after trying to break into a corner store. Even after all this time it still made him feel uncomfortable to wear the light hospital gown and rest under thin sheets. He still wanted someone’s hand to hold and for people to tell him a fun and bubbly sugar-coated version instead of the whole truth. To top it off with a sticker of his choice.

It’s different now that he’s an adult because this time he must talk for himself. When the doctor explains that due to privacy laws he’s the one to say that he’d rather not let anybody else hear about it except he knows that they’ve already asked questions, and everybody knows because he’s been acting like shit and he’s apparently skeletal but this time there’s not the jacket or baggy to cover and hide that. The doctor’s words instil in him some reassurance though, or some isolation he doesn’t know.

That’s how it is. He must be the lone solider to face everything that he’s doing to himself physically due to a mental battle. Well really, he doesn’t have to be but that’s the only way he can see it because it’s disgusting that he’s like this.

He feels so lost, he’s not even taking in a word that Dr. Patterson has to say but he tries.

 

“Alright.” He clicked his pen twice. Dr Patterson had a low and somewhat gruff voice. It wasn’t very doctor-ish. “We’ve done an initial look so nothing too in-depth yet but from your vitals; your heart rate is a little slow which is concerning, and your temperature is also low. Those can all be dealt with but…” The tall and compact doctor paused. The words flew through in scribbled dot points he only half registered through the drugs they wired into him through various tubes.

He felt the angled bed against his spine and bones like he felt panic that they might wire him to something with more substance or rather calories that the IV uncomfortably supply hydration, something that laid around the prison of health. “Do you know how much you weigh Mr Stump?”

He knows his weight, or he knows what he weighed last week when he tried to figure out how much he didn’t want to live anymore. “Yeah. Sort of.” And he knew that he might lie about his certainty because he could not have anything be suspicious.

“You’re at 93lbs which is about 42kg. Do you know what your healthy range is?”

“No.” The singer doesn’t like talking, his voice was weak and wavering in caution.

“For your height, approximately 110lbs at the lowest.”

“So, I’m a little underweight.”

 

“Your _quite_ underweight. Your body can’t function.” He toned himself gentler. With the specialist doctor way of delicately placing heavy conversation. Like how distance makes big look small although they would still crush you instantaneously. He didn’t really need to be gentle though because Patrick knew it, he did do basic biology in high school and mostly paid attention. He wasn’t an idiot, well not completely. He knew he shouldn’t lose more weight it was just weight meant food – that was his real problem. “It’s putting strain to keep up which has caused you to pass out. You don’t have sufficient electrolytes and essential minerals that let your heart and other vital organs operate.”

“Okay.” _Is that really bad?_  

 

“Your friends are worried about you. They said that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and been showing a lot of depressive symptoms. Mr Trohman said he’d noticed you’d also lost a lot of weight very quickly and suspected you’d been dieting to an extreme degree. And I know you guys are famous, very famous, so that would very pressuring and it’s hard to keep that up. What I’m trying to say is that, I don’t blame you for anything. But I must ask, are you or have you suffered from an eating disorder before?”

“No.” Lies came quick as initiative. Maybe faster now. _Fuck could I have an eating disorder? Bullshit, that’s not right. Only thin people get eating disorder and I’m not that that thin._ He just wanted to get out and away from it all. “Listen, will I be able to perform is the main thing.”

 

“Yes, but I’d like you to consider inpatient or outpatient treatment. It’ll honestly help and your very fortunate to have the cash many people don’t to afford it and it shouldn’t be long to have a male bed open. We would like to sign you to a physiatrist evaluation-”

“I don’t want to crowd needed beds.” Haughtily he rushed the words so that they clambered and jerked into each other. _That’s for crazy people isn’t it. They did that to the Joker in Batman or something._ He felt his breath getting trapped in his ribcage and something stuck in his throat just thinking of it. The bedsheets ruffling amplified in his head, _crazy or attention seeking?_ “I just forgot to eat, see touring means you don’t get that time to sit down because your busy at interviews and such. Really it’s fine.”

“We will have to run a few more tests for today then your fine. But if you don’t stop, or gain weight, this won’t be the last time I see you. I can tell when a patient is ill.”

 

He doesn’t remember if there was more to the conversation. If he’d left it mentally or the Dr Patterson physically. Everything was moving so fast in his head though. Part of him felt betrayed by his friends, telling the doctor that he was struggling because someone like him is supposed to appear invincible. On the other hand, he’s also aware that this isn’t something he can fix by slamming on 80’s hits and pretending the world isn’t turning like usual. Mostly he’s sick with nerves. An overwhelming guilt. Mum, Kevin, Pete, Andy, Megan, Joe, fans and everyone who’s ever cared for him he’s guilty for making worry.

The conversation hits after it’s over. Like it always does. Like it always will. Because in the conversation he’s more worried about his voice and people and appearance and words, so afterwards is the information.

Is the accusation that he’s not entirely mentally sound right now. That he needs to talk to a professional about this stuff. He’s going to have to eat and he’s going to put on weight. They want him to stop what makes him, him nowadays. They want him to stay in hospital for god’s sake.  And the idea that staying here would ruin the tour. He’s going to ruin the tour for everyone.

It’s not the best idea to leave a man alone to his thoughts.

 

* * *

 “This band is everything to me. You know, I’ve been with them since I was a teenager, like I was seventeen when we got into it. I never had to get a proper job so hanging around with these losers is all I’ve known and I’m not complaining about it. I’d never – never really complain about it at all. Music has always been really important to me to deal with things or just enjoy in general and the fact that we’re touched so many people just astounds me. Honestly it does.”

Patrick Stump – Billboard Interview

* * *

 

 

“How can he have an eating disorder, how?”

Pete’s words echoed around everyone’s heads as they malingered in their own private huddle around the corridor just near Patrick’s room. Despite being unable to see inside, they visualised it from memory. Now, however, it was either late or it was early. Either one really. None of them cared in any case because come any circumstance they’d all still be there for their friend and they’d still feel the same about it. Nothing would change that. Just maybe they’d feel a little better if they could talk to him.

Even though it was only Patrick that was under the doctor’s scrutiny they all looked and felt a wreck. The uncomfortable line of short answer questions off a hospital nurse that emerged from the room twenty to thirty minutes prior unnerved them because each response was worse than the last. And the start was shit anyway.

Joe had read her upside-down scrawl to recall the notes again, all along the lines of malnutrition, dehydration, irregular heartbeat etc. basically, nothing they wanted to hear. The inexplicit way of lacing around something that congealed into something along the lines of, _do you think or know your friend is starving and/or purging on a regular enough basis or has done so before because he sure as heck looks like it_.

 

“None of us saw it coming.” Andy said, his voice pitched a little higher than usual to remain himself from showing too much emotion too soon, yet it was quiet because he directed his speech into the tiled floor rather than to whom he spoke to.

“I should have noticed it.” Pete interjected sharply. A hurt in his eyes as he rolled his head up against the wall the he was leaning against. “How can someone not notice when the person they’re practically living with stops eating.”

“He didn’t want us to know. Probably.” Joe reasoned.

Pete refused to take it though, he was the sort of person to be stubborn in his views even if it was a view he despised. Even if it wasn’t true. “This isn’t supposed to happen to people like Patrick, not like him. He’s so innocent and pure, he never wants to do anything that could hurt or upset someone. He’s supposed to be cuddly and – and happy.”

 

They stood in a few moments of silent agreement. That it wasn’t something they thought to be in his nature but simultaneously that they all somewhat had suspicions about or rather about Patrick not being Patrick as of late. At least Andy could admit, “We all knew something was up with him. He inverted his timetable, practically, to avoid people. How was anyone to really know exactly what was up?”

“And when you know something’s up, you’re supposed to intervene not lace around the edges.” Anger, or perhaps it was more frustration, fringed over his words. “He denied going anywhere for god’s sake and stayed in his room for days sometimes. I thought maybe he was fucking depressed, I mean hell if I know. I accused him of being on drugs. I’ve seen him have a panic attack over going to a restaurant once… how did I not figure it out.”

Pete was working himself into a panic attack more than anything. Funny thing how it always turned out like this, when he tried to help someone he ended up wrecking himself. Perhaps that’s why Patrick didn’t want him to know. Or perhaps they were all just fucked.

 

“Pete. Stop. We’re all blaming ourselves. Patrick needs us, this band is shit about addressing problems in a normal way.” Andy signed begrudgingly.

“Patrick just blasted anyone who tried to talk to him anyway.” Joe contributed, his own mind flashing back between everything. From the moment they had let them in at first and he saw his friend unconscious on the bed to the moments during tour that he saw his friend crying out for help in ways he didn’t notice but were so clear now. “I’m feel sick just thinking about this. When can we visit him again?”

“The cocksucker said they wanted us out for examination so like when that’s done.” Pete hissed with venom he couldn’t care less to mask. “They better fucking tell us when they’re done or I’m breaking in there and knocking down the fucking door.”

“Well, what are we going to do about it once we get in there?”

“I’m going to try and talk to him.” He said like it was easy.

“You really think he’s going to listen.”

“I’m not giving him a choice.”

 

* * *

 You have one new voicemail from ‘Mom’,

“Rick, Rick what’s happened darling? I heard you went to the hospital I don’t know if your conscious sweetie nobody is telling me what’s happening. Are you alright, is anything serious, are you going to be able to come home? Call me soon, please, I need to know you’re alright darling. Even if you just want to text me just get back as soon as possible. I love you Rickster.”

* * *

 

The doctor had only permitted two people in the room at a time as not to bombard him but it’s hard to leave a friend in need. They all stood by in the room and Patrick didn’t object for once in weeks, because he honestly felt like he needed somebody with him for once. The idea of having drugs in him made him feel panicky, the idea of the hospital made him feel an anxious sort of nauseous and the truth made him want to die. Even if the drugs made him feel half asleep and detached it was there. The familiarity of having friends around was what really made him calm. Although confronting he truth always made him feel like dying.

  

“Your sick Lunchbox.” Pete had assured him as he had clambered onto a sliver of the bedside talking to him gently but with a forlorn undertone when he brushed his hands through dry and fragile strands of hair sitting on his knees. “You need to get better, just like a physical illness.”

“I’m not sick.” He smiled back to him like it could make it all better with just a smile. It was like when your mom makes you hug your sibling to make up for things even though you actually still resent each deep down but then you mom has been alluded to a temporary belief you’ve made a pact of friendship when you’ll just pull their hair when she leaves because they deserve it no matter what mom says. But before fighting back you end up mattering back a sorry, like the quiet way he muttered the next few words. “I just want to get out of here.”

“Maybe that’s not the best thing right now.”

“But it is the best thing. I know what’s good for me.”

 

“Well starving yourself isn’t good for you and that’s what you’ve been doing.” Joe spoke from where he stood nearer to the end of the bed. He couldn’t let it be unspoken that they all knew it was wrong, false, lying and hurtful. He hadn’t made direct eye contact since he arrived and in most ways, Patrick was thankful because eye contact was uncomfortable under normal circumstance in this it would be a living hell. But it was the words that made him squirm in his bed. Pete noticed.

“Joe that’s not his fault.” Pete protected the blonde.

“You can’t just blame it on the illness or he won’t get better.”

“You can’t talk down to somebody who needs help.”

 

There was no point listening to their squabbling. _They have the right to be upset, you ruined it._ He stayed silent and let them pull punches at each other, like Andy. From where he leaned against the wall with his gaze looking half vacant and half thoughtful as he made an analysis of the patient’s body language. Or perhaps just gazing where his body was scattered in bruises and minor injuries he didn’t know where he picked up.

Andy had always been like that. He didn’t like talking as much, sure he’d talk a lot around those he was comfortable with but in these situations, he didn’t often like to. But he said what he thought needed to be said and wasn’t otherwise going to be and tried to keep everyone at a level head. The succinct words leaving his lips, “Patrick doesn’t need this right now. He needs our help not bickering.” Without ever loosing eye contact. Somehow though hearing someone accuse you of relying on others didn’t make one feel that great, or at least for Patrick.

 Nothing made him feel that great thought, it made him feel defensive before all else.

 

As silence fell over them again though he was fucking done with people talking. He wanted to quickly have some input, that he admittedly believed was going to spindle down the drain in seconds as it worked its way down in the overflowing sewers of things that he tried to talk about but didn’t know how to. “I don’t need help with any of this. I wasn’t _starving_ myself, I was just dieting too hard. I know what I’m doing.”

 

“Knowing what your doing doesn’t land you on a hospital bed.”

“I know your worried Joe but seriously, shut up.”

Defensive was a good descriptor but oversensitive was more suitable.

“Patrick, I know it’s hard, but I think that you know as well as we do that you have a problem at this point and that it’s not okay.” Pete said delicately, crawling closer to the blonde and laying down beside him almost but half hanging off. “We’re here for you. Talk to us.”

Those words had been following him lately. That and the looks of concern from the tour bus driver to his friends to his manager. Even a fan or so despite his attempts to hide it all. He knew what they required of him. Something he didn’t want to think about doing, not anymore. Because he knew what they wanted. The impossible. Dying was more possible, was easier, than recovery. _Just let me be sick. As long as we’re not in this hospital._

 

“You keep saying that like it’s something simple, as if you can fix everything that’s wrong and that you don’t believe that I know how to deal with it. Well I am talking to you right now and you’re not listening. There is nothing wrong. What could be wrong when I’m living my teenage dreamlife.”

“Okay can you listen to us though too. ‘Cause we’re not touring if it’s risking your life. You wouldn’t do it with us, we won’t do it with you. If you really do want to then we’re not just going to let you go ahead like this on a deathwish. Eating disorders are serious problems,” _I don’t have an eating disorder,_ “and don’t tell me that you don’t because these people, the ones trying to help you, are professional and they know what they are looking at.”

“What happened to my privacy. Who are they to say anything for certain.” Side note, everyone in the room and hospital staff were practically certain in their decision. It’s just that this is something like when you didn’t study for the test and you know that the teacher knows you’re going to fail because you do this every time. With reasoning that you’re not going into this field anyway. But you tell your parents you think ‘it wasn’t too bad but there were some difficult parts’ or throw the false ‘yeah like nobody did well on this one though’ and get it back seeing you failed totally expecting it but still mildly pissed.

Except he’d be distraught. So, he was going to protest on death bed. “That’s what they think, and they’ve known me less than a day so who should you really trust?”

 

“Okay then, okay.” Pete said sprouting upright and looking for support between the two other band members collected in the affirmative nod. “Let’s make a deal. Seeing your in clear denial then if you get worse then we’re admitting you straight back to the hospital, no questions or anything and tour is cancelled. If you don’t then it’s fine and anything happens we get told.”

“And I’m not touring if you don’t get a person to look at your state what is it… a psychiatric evaluation, whatever it is.” Joe tipped in.

“Why do I need to do that?” There was some underlying level of genuine uncertainty in him, the way that he felt uncertain what they thought was wrong with him. He wasn’t crazy, he was just going through the motions. His own little Rockstar breakdown. Wait a minute, when did he start to think that. _I’m a fucking cliché, not a person._ His chest felt tight. It scared his heart to beat faster.

 

“Patrick, realistically I think you should be inpatient.”

“Why?” _Breathe Patrick, just breathe._

“You’ve damaged your body, from what we heard,” Joe acted as the mouthpiece this time, “You should be here medically. I don’t know how much you were eating but tell me do you even know how much you should be eating? Do you know what you’re supposed to have, what you’re supposed to weight or even how thin you really are?”

They wanted to stick him inside a hospital, not have to deal with him themselves. Or maybe they really did care about him and maybe he really was important to them on some level and they were genuinely concerned about how he was coping. He didn’t really know either, he didn’t know if his goals were, well not realistic but sensible. Because they weren’t realistic, he knew that, but they may or may not have been sensible. He idolised something he should shun.

He idolised his death for so long though and that hadn’t killed him just yet. He felt himself overcome and give in. In a hospital room with his friends moving to crowd around his bed when he unconsciously let out a choke sob he didn’t realise was there. And he was only semi successful in stifling his tears when he became aware. He didn’t know if it was the panic or the sadness that clogged him or the stench of chemicals or the silence.

“Your treating me like I’m incompetent.” He squeaked. “Can we talk about this later?”

 

Pete caressed his shoulder gently as he curled into a ball ignoring the pull of small tubes and half eaten plate of food he’s only touched to ease others. He ignored the world again, he’d make his way out before the next show and he’d see the bloody professional once. Because Pete just proved he knew how to get around what he didn’t want to do, in his eyes at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have actually never visited a hospital since I was born. I had no idea what to write henceforth so I was really vague in details and descriptors but I still tried. Also I wanted to like go for a, guess spoiler alter but idk, give him anxiety for the assessment maybe depression but I'm not sure if I should so though I don't really get comments if you could please say if you think that sounds reasonable for the story. Thanks for reading, see you next update!


	9. I Have No Clue Where to Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you start to deal with something nobody wants to acknowledge, how do you fix someone who'd rather fix people more complete than them?

Chapter 9: I Have No Clue Where to Start

“This is your fault.” Andy hissed through gritted teeth.  
“How is it my fault?” Pete threw up his arms up but was on brink of tears.  
“It always is, isn’t it?”  
“Fuck you.”

Joe subconsciously growled before words formed in his sentence, the space that they were all crammed in crowding him not only physically but mentally. “Is anybody going to fix the problem or just scream back and forth?” He asked, equally fed up.

“Why don’t you do it then?” Pete questioned. Joe sighed heavily going back to his pacing and fiddling with a few strands of hair. Somehow arguing hadn’t gotten them anywhere, funny how that always seemed to be the case.

 

Patrick though, he just tried to tune out everyone’s voices as he scrolled through his social media stream on his phone where he’d locked himself into the bathroom and focused to the tunes of a song that reminded him of high school and better times. He hadn’t come out since the concert last night and it was afternoon now.

That concert had been a marvellous occasion really, everything went perfect. When he was on stage to sing he performed too. Pretending everything was as terrific as the background effects flashing behind them. Trying to expend as much energy as possible with each movement and his mind shifting away when he wasn’t called to talk.

After the performance he had started to panic about being forced into eating dinner though, so he locked himself up. An anxious headache as company. Dragging his diary, phone and computer with him. He was sweaty, cold and tired but he didn’t sleep or shower. Looking for temporary online dopamine pitstops to suppress the failure his diary revealed.

 

He was the same as ever on stage. He wanted to be the same offstage. He wanted it to be 2004 again when they used to do stupid dares and they were friends not whatever this was. Nobody was treating him that way though. Maybe it was because he’s come back from the hospital, with two little trophies of orange bottles that were so beautifully advertised to him with problems that were just normal emotions in his mind. Just him overreacting, nothing new.

Or perhaps the shift in treatment was because he tried not to take them. That hypocritical Pete that didn’t take his own medication like 40% of the time had pitched in with Andy and Joe to check that he took them after they discovered he skipped the first few scheduled doses.

 

They’re vigilance isn’t useless. Despite the fact they give him practically no privacy, there’s an epiphany when Joe tells him for certain that the moments of dizzying, disorienting, suffocating stress he assumed were nothing but a sign of weakness, are in fact panic attacks. Something he didn’t know how to feel about. Worst he doesn’t know how to feel when he’s assured the medication he’s not taking will lessen them.

He supposes when he takes them it helps him, somewhat anyway. He knows that the doctor said they’d like him to check in if there was a problem because the anxiety medication can cause suicidal thoughts and physical unpleasantries he’s not going to go into. He’d never go back there though, and because he’s never going to take it. Intrusive concerns linger like starving wolves that a side effect might mean putting on weight. Fuck he knows it.

 

Pete knocked on the door hesitantly calling his name with a gentle tone. “Patrick?”

“Hey, Stump!” Andy yelled without much hesitance realising they were otherwise being tuned out henceforth required him banging forcefully on the door. The fragile blonde wanted to ignore it, but he felt scared and jumpy when the argument was directed at him and if _Andy_ was yelling, so he listened. “So, we all really want you to get out of the bathroom more than anything right now. Meaning, we’re not going to force you to eat but you’ve got to get out of there alright? We still want you to eat something but mostly we just want to see you’re okay.”

 

He’s surprised how easily he gets them at times like this, he’s perfected battering off meals. But knowing he can work it motivates him to get out of the bathroom that he doesn’t recall if he enjoyed being in or not. That and the slight hunch that his destructive habits are having detrimental effects on long lasing friendship. They all look like they’d been labouring day and night on docks and having to worry about their poor wife Belinda and the kids that were always wondering why they didn’t get a birthday present. It’s first time they’ve been worried like this since the Best Buy incident and he knows Pete’s already seeming like that again at least, not to mention Joe and Andy’s mental state.

 

“Thanks.” Joe says quietly in contrast when his friend remerges like he was in for a minute only.  

“I’m sorry.” He blurts out for no reason staring at them. _They hate you now._

Pete puts his arm around his shoulders murmuring, “It’s alright now. It’s alright”

Andy gives him a look that he knows means this is going to come up again later. He knows that if he has something to say then its not. Life was like that. Joe got that when he just walked off with Andy back to their bus. _You just wasted their time with this, why are you doing this?_ He feels the knot in his stomach tie itself around a few more times as Pete pulls him into a hug. _You’re not going to have to eat though. Make up for those hundreds with some zeros._

 

“It’s not your fault Pete.” He assures him ignoring the way Pete trails his hands around where he knows that even through the stiff denim jacket you can feel the defined outline of his shoulder blades. He doesn’t want to deal with what everyone is trying to force him to confront so instead he’ll deal with Pete’s recent depressive mood over the incident. Easier to heal others than yourself. “Have you eaten?”

“I could ask you the same thing but we both know the answer.”

“I’ll make you a sandwich.”

He doesn’t make it to the kitchen before he’s hit by another wave of light headedness and staggers to a halt. _No, no, no we’re losing that skill. It’s only been a day we need to try again._

Pete wordlessly takes him to sit down because he knows by looking at him that he’s going to pass out otherwise. He knows all he can do is give him water because food is the enemy. So gently he directs him to a seat and drops him down uttering words in his ear. “It’s hard to look after someone else when you’re dying a little too isn’t it.” With passive aggressive undertones.

“I’d easily die for you Pete.”

“Would you live for me?”

 

Honestly, he doesn’t know. It’s a hard question to answer when he thinks that anything would be better than living these days. The only reason he’s not dead is because he knows how people will think about the coward who died, and he doesn’t want Pete to follow suit when he’s not there to stop him. So, he evades it by taking the glass of water Pete offers. 

 

_Water weight, so much harder to get rid of._ There’s the comfort of familiarity feeling when the cold water running down into an empty stomach. _I need to drink. I’ll be dehydrated and die otherwise, it’s zero calories._ He drops it when he’s finished half. _Water soaked into your skin, bones, muscles, flesh and adding to the scales._ He stares at it a little, what would it weigh. He so fucking weak it feels like a lot more than it probably is. _This is getting ridiculous, we can’t be hydrophobic._

“I’m sorry Patrick.” Pete said slouching into a seat beside him. “I’m supposed to help you get better and I don’t have a fucking clue where to start. You’re so thin, you don’t have to starve yourself. I hate seeing you like this, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” His voice grated along his throat when tears brimmed his eyes. They’d been trying to get there for a long time. Patrick didn’t respond.

This didn’t feel like 2004, it didn’t even feel like last month.

 

* * *

That was Fall Out Boy and another hit from their album. Speaking of that Jamie you heard that those fella’s are up for an award. One of the top nominations into the category against all the big names.

Oh well Steve, I’ve been listening since teen angst. These guys are good stuff telling ya’

* * *

 

 

“Are you ready for the interview?” Patrick inquired.

“Yeah, I’m ready.” Joe responded wistfully but without the privilege of eye contact.

“Everything alright?”

“It’s fine Patrick. Really.”

“Um, you sure. I mean, I might not understand it, but I’ll listen.” Believe it or not he knows how hypocritical that sounded. One because he would never talk when someone offered but he tries to see it as he’s not accusing anyone of anything just offering to be there. If you understand that difference, it means a lot to some. Secondly, he’s also being hypocritical because he’s wringing his hands under the thick sleeves of Pete’s borrowed hoodie from ages ago he’s only wearing to remind him of Pete and looking for distractions.

 

“It’s alright.” Joe sighed brush a hand through his flamboyant locks.

“If you don’t want to go for the interview that’s cool.”

He stared blankly on the electrical box of distractions. “That’s not it at all.”

“Come on, I know you want to be in more interviews so what’s up?”

“You know it’s still an hour and a half before we got to go. You need to stop worry about these things so much. Besides neither of us are going if you don’t eat your lunch you know.” He nodded towards the plate of food at the table, scarcely touched apart from maybe two forkfuls in comparison to how the slightly taller had eaten most of his. What was he expecting though, him to be instantly fixed?

“I _am_ eating it. It’s just… difficult.” There was a better way to phrase it, alas his head was foggy. He didn’t know what that better wording might have been. Perhaps it would have been that he didn’t want it at all.

 

Joe smiled at him. He looked like he was remorseful already mourning a death that hadn’t happened. In most though he wasn’t, in most his expression was something needing deep analysis and decoding. “And we appreciate your trying. Try not to focus on the food, the TV is on for a reason.”

Patrick wants to tell him that mindless eating is something that he knows can cause weight gain because you’re not realising how much you’re eating and he’s trained himself never to do that, but he would never do that to a friend. His main issue with the television is that he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to not focus on the food and yet still finish the food but it’s also not okay to talk about the interview playing on his mind whilst eating when that’s a distraction.

Life’s funny like that, you never really know things just pretend you do so others feel jealous of your surety in everything.

 

He drags his fork along the plate moving everything further into their organised little piles, taking another bite of finely cut food. He doesn’t know why they want to watch him eat when there’s boxes he ticks for every meal anyway because nobody trusts him. Mistrust placed correctly but it’s offensive all the same.

His planning saved for night-time diary entries is made by someone else. There’s a rough plan on the meals, they figured out pretty quickly he was unable to stomach much anymore when he threw up after being forcefully sat down and having two full meals. A google search said his stomach was smaller, his brain said it was a sign.

All in all, he was still only eating 900 calories a day and 1200 calories or more on tour days. He usually managed to batter off at least 200 calories though. With the, “What if I have more of _x_ instead of _y_?” or the part that if it’s not the whole band he’s making his own separate meals because he doesn’t trust them, but they want to see him eat.

He’s not blaming them the pamphlet on how to help a loved one with an eating disorder told them what to do, intentions are well meant.

 

In all honesty having someone so closely monitor you is nerve wracking but you can’t exactly have them leave. It’s like when you’re doing a test and the teacher is behind you, they aren’t looking at you but because this is something that matters than everything feels like it’ll mean more than it really does, and you freeze up thinking about the teacher instead of the question.

He thinks that they are making it worse in that way.

 

“The interview isn’t live right? They’re going to edit it I mean.” He asks taking a tentative mouthful and dropping back down his fork. _Wait I’m not supposed to talk about that._

“Uh… I’ll be back in a minute.”

Whilst Joe disappeared somewhere Patrick managed to slip a small portion into his jacket before his return. He really does only take a minute, probably because since changing buses to Joe instead of Pete – an act done in order to avoid the way Pete looked at him at night and cried when he though Patrick didn’t hear – he’d come to the realisation that the two of them lived in not just filth but messy filth. It’s harder to hid stuff and easier to find things in clean environments.

 

“Alright,” Joe said slipping into the seat beside him with his phone open and at an irritatingly low percentage. “Here’s the email for the interview. Want me to read it out?”

He listens to every word as Joe narrates the email with some added commentary to attempt to muscle out a laugh that only fetches a shy uncertain smile. Patrick finds himself too focused on mentally double checking the checklist whilst they run through it. Because even when he ends up not finishing the meal he knows he’s going to make the interview. The threats like those don’t really work.

Everyone has come to understand that making him sit and each is drawn out. That no if there’s matter a knife to his throat there will be no clean plate that’ll be out by the end of it and that even a snack is going to take twenty minutes sometimes. Even the pitiful murmurs just get snapped at. Just nobody wants to wait that long, so nobody does. They leave eventually. He leaves it unfinished.

He wishes the shock of hospital made him get better. If anything, it’s making it worse and now he can’t pretend it’s fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my computer rejected my USB for a while but now I got it working and I can upload this thank goodness. I'mma back!  
> So now, tell me my friends what do you think? Things getting better for our little blonde little singer, was it really worth a hospital trip? See you next time, ~~(I honest really hate this chapter myself because I can't write but you know maybe someone will) ~~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story guys and I hope it's alright. In case it's unclear to story focuses on Patrick having an Eating Disorder and it does honestly suck but I tried. Please don't do this to yourselves either it's not healthy and I don't have experience with an eating disorder so I don't have any right to say this is even right or similar. I appreciate any comments and all that jazz - love to hear your thoughts


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